From The Ashes
by Ecri
Summary: Takes place between the pilot episode and episode 2. My take on what they went through to forge a brotherhood so quickly. D'Artagnan returns home to Lupiac after Athos's release from prison to bury his father. Chapter 10. Loose ends are tied up, things become clearer to d'Artagnan and takes steps to build a new life for himself from the ashes of his old life.
1. Chapter 1

Sorry for the formatting problem. I hope this fixes it.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 1

Tears and Rain

The rain, the cursed rain, ran down his face making it hard to see. His clothes were soaked through, and the trickle down the back of his collar had left him unbearably uncomfortable. He had to keep blinking and rubbing at his eyes as the relentless downpour reminded him of the night before his arrival in Paris and all he had lost before he'd ever seen the city.

He feared rain would always remind him of death, and as rain was fairly common, he envisioned himself plummeting into a miasma of emotions any time so much as a misty drizzle occurred.

A crack of thunder and a flash of lightning startled him. After a few more blocks, he had to stop, the emotions and memories so overwhelming that he found it hard to breathe. He put out a hand and touched the wall he was passing, the solid mass of it somehow reassuring. His head hung down, his hair hanging in his eyes. Forcing himself to breathe normally, he eventually managed to push the grief far enough away that he could focus once more on his self-appointed task.

He shook his head to dislodge thoughts of rain, loss, death and blood, trying instead to focus on his surroundings. He'd been in several bars already and he was beginning to think there were more taverns, inns, and drinking establishments in Paris than in all of the rest of France combined.

Seeing another such establishment just ahead, he took a steadying breath and went inside. He blinked the rain away and tried to get his eyes to adjust. At first, he saw no hint of his quarry. He'd been all over Paris and was beginning to believe he'd never find them. He could wait, of course, and try to catch them at the garrison in the morning, but he had never been patient. As he cleared his eyes of excess water, he was both relieved and a bit apprehensive to realize that those he sought were actually here. They sat at a table near the hearth with several bottles of wine, the combination of which allowed them to toast both their good fortune and their chilled bodies.

He hesitated to approach, but he had set this task for himself, and he would not abandon it now. To do so, he believed, would risk his father's disapproval from beyond the grave. He didn't believe in supernatural reprisals, but causing his father disappointment was a thought that chilled him more than the rain, and he felt a shudder race through him. Not giving himself a chance to turn around and leave the task undone, he weaved his way through the room, around tables, dodging patrons and serving women until he stood at the table by the hearth.

He stood by the table for a few moments before the occupants registered his presence. Athos sat nearest to where d'Artagnan stood, but it was Porthos who noticed him first. "D'Artagnan! Sit! Let us buy you a drink!"

Aramis smiled and Athos, though he did not smile, did indicate an empty chair beside him as though it had been placed there just in case the Gascon farm boy joined them.

"I…" his courage wavered and he cleared his throat forcing himself to look at each of them in turn, but lingering on Athos. "I want to apologize. I was wrong." He looked Athos in the eye. "You are an honorable man." He looked at Aramis and Porthos. "You all are." He turned back to Athos, his gaze both determined and anxious. "I let my grief and anger persuade me that I knew all I needed to know. My fa…" The word caught in his throat. His voice cracked and he found he had to swallow twice before he was able to continue. "My father would have been disappointed in me. I beg your forgiveness." In a gesture he knew was rather old-fashioned, but of which he knew his father would approve, d'Artagnan drew his sword and placed it on the floor at Athos's feet. He then knelt before the man, his head bowed. The symbolism was plain for any who dared to read it. D'Artagnan offered his life to Athos to atone for maligning his honor and his name. In the days when his father had worn a sword, this sword, this would have been a sign that he was serious and penitent.

After a moment, Athos stood. D'Artagnan forced himself not to flinch. Athos reached down and grasped his shoulders gently bringing the young Gascon to his feet. Once d'Artagnan was standing, Athos waited until the younger man looked him in the eye. "If you acted on misinformation, you atoned for that by helping to clear my name. For that, you have my gratitude." Athos reached for d'Artagnan's hand. D'Artagnan took it and they shook. Athos then reached down and retrieved d'Artagnan's blade. Looking at it critically, he held it out hilt first to the young Gascon. "This is a fine blade." As d'Artagnan sheathed it, Athos added, "It suits you."

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise at the subtle compliment.

"Join us for a drink," Porthos called.

D'Artagnan, still slightly overcome by the unforeseen turn of events shook his head in quick denial. "No, thank you. I don't want to intrude."

"It's an invitation," said Aramis. "Not an intrusion."

D'Artagnan considered that. He really didn't want to intrude, but refusing seemed wrong in light of what had happened. "Will you let me buy the next round?"

"Alas," said Aramis with a devilish twinkle in his eye, "Athos has claimed that privilege for the remainder of the evening."

Athos shrugged as he poured. "I am grateful to be alive. It makes me a bit more generous than usual."

Porthos snorted. "As if you need an excuse."

They drank and talked of duty, of honor, of missions past and of Aramis's conquests, and Porthos's games of chance, and before long, d'Artagnan felt almost as though he were a part of this special group. He found that his clothes had dried, and that, unfortunately made him remember why they had been wet in the first place, which made him remember what the rain generally brought to mind. To his horror, he realized he'd actually forgotten about his father's death for a short time. _How_, he wondered, _could I sit here laughing when he died such a death?_ He berated himself for several minutes and then began making excuses to leave.

They argued, but the full weight of his grief had returned, and he could not have stayed there under the burden of it. He thought he heard the trio deciding to leave as well, but he didn't stop to confirm it.

He was gone and out the door barely realizing that the rain had stopped, and the muddy streets were all but deserted. The chill in the air told him to move quickly, but he found that he really had nowhere to go. It was late, and Monsieur Bonacieux would have locked the door by now. He claimed he had to secure the house since it held so much of the materials for his business, but d'Artagnan believed he simply preferred to lock his tenants out after a certain hour so he could believe he was managing to be paid his full rent for providing less than that for which he was paid. He berated himself again for such thoughts. He hardly knew the man. He shouldn't make assumptions about his character. His father wouldn't approve. He shook his head realizing that that thought had crossed his mind more in this one night than it had in his entire life before now.

He wandered aimlessly around the streets, slightly too drunk to realize it wasn't the best idea. In a short time he was a bit lost. He realized he'd been going in circles after he passed the same tavern once again. He turned a corner, then another, and that's when he saw Athos.

"What are you doing out here?" Athos asked.

"I could ask the same," d'Artagnan replied.

"You left us some time ago. Why are you not in bed?"

D'Artagnan almost blushed. "Monsieur Bonacieux locks his doors at a respectable hour. I could not get in now without breaking down his door."

"Of course he does." Athos said softly with a shake of his head. "We can't have you sleeping on the streets of Paris. You'd best come with me."

As they walked, the rains began again, and soon the pair found themselves soaked through and hurrying along the mud caked streets.

D'Artagnan expected to be taken to the Musketeer garrison and given the privilege of a spot in the stables. To his surprise, Athos led him through the winding streets of Paris to a small flat. The room was modest, but it was dry and warm, and d'Artagnan, shivering, thought that was the most important thing.

Athos led him to sit by the fire, and, producing a bottle of wine, poured two cups. After they'd drunk a bit, they were both warmer.

After a time, D'Artagnan reached for the wine and was surprised to find the bottle empty. He distinctly remembered Athos uncorking the bottle, so either it held much less than most, or they'd had a great deal more than one glass each all ready. He stared at the bottle in confusion.

Athos chuckled. "Are you well, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan opened is mouth to say he was fine. To his dismay, something else entirely issued from his traitorous lips.

"I…I'm alone." He dropped his voice to a whisper because it wasn't really the sort of thing you said loudly. "I'm an…an orphan." His brow furrowed in drunken consternation. "How can I be that?" He shook his head, but stopped and put a hand to it with a groan.

Athos was looking at him with the strangest expression on his face. "D'Artagnan," he said sounding completely sober somehow. "Have you ever been drunk before?"

"Ah," d'Artagnan said. "I've drunk plenty…but no…never enough at any one time to be drunk. F…father w-wouldn't approve." He realized what he'd said and he laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, he realized. It was more manic than anything else.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called.

D'Artagnan looked at the Musketeer. His brow was furrowed and there was a look in his eye d'Artagnan had once seen in his father's. It was when d'Artagnan was about seven and he'd come down with a fever. He'd been talking perfectly coherently one moment and babbling nonsense the next. He'd talked of seeing his mother, of golden light…he remembered none of it later, but his father had told him of it. The only thing he did recall was the look in his father's eye that somehow Athos had now.

He laughed until he felt like crying, and then he clenched his mouth shut. He wouldn't want to do such a thing in front of this man. He'd come to respect him too much since his arrival in Paris. Perhaps it was Aramis's and Porthos's stories. Perhaps it was that he seemed so honorable and d'Artagnan's father was just the same. Whatever it was, d'Artagnan found himself leaning closer to him and confiding in him. "Athos, I'm alone. He died. How can he be dead?" Anger bubbled over and warred with grief. "I did nothing to save him!" He looked at Athos. "How could I have done that? How could I just have let him die?" He searched Athos's eyes as though searching for the answers. "I just watched him die." He said it in a whisper, and the rage was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I held him in my arms as he lay on the ground in the pouring rain. There was so much blood, and so fast. He was gone so quickly. It seemed he died before I had a chance to realize he was dying. How can a life end so quickly? How is it he can be dead in the time it takes to blink?"

"That's usually the way of it," Athos said softly and there was both bitterness and experience in his words.

"What do I do now?" D'Artagnan asked, but Athos couldn't answer.

**The Musketeers**

Athos could feel the effects of the wine he'd consumed dissipating. It was d'Artagnan's laughter that had chased it away. It had scared him. It was tinged with madness, and Athos was only too aware that grief that deep could be any man's undoing. The realization that the hell Athos had gone through in the Chatelet had been matched if not surpassed by the hell this farm boy had had to endure, and was still enduring, was, quite literally, sobering.

Athos's life had, or so he'd thought, been forfeit, but now that he'd been proven innocent, his life would resume much as it was before. The boy had no such comfort. His life had been irreparably altered. The boy had suffered a loss that Athos had not allowed himself to consider. It stirred something in him, awakening something that he'd thought he'd lost.

D'Artagnan looked Athos in the eye, and Athos could see a pleading, desperate need for answers. "There was so much blood. So much. Why couldn't I stop it?"

A crash of thunder and an almost simultaneous flash of lightning had the boy flinching as though struck. Athos opened another bottle and poured him another glass of wine, though he knew it wasn't the answer.

Athos could tell from the description that the fatal blow the boy's father had suffered had been a vicious one. Gaudet had not been kind. He knew where to strike to cause the most damage, and he'd opened the man up and let him bleed out like a deer in a hunt.

He listened to d'Artagnan's self-realizations, and the depths of the man's emotions surprised him. He hadn't expected this. He'd been lost in his own head, reliving things best left alone, facing memories in the Chatelet he'd only faced with a bottle in his hand. He'd been denied that bottle in prison, and had wallowed. He saw that now. He'd voluntarily leaped into the abyss of his grief, self-loathing, and recriminations and he'd tortured himself with well-practiced efficiency and accuracy. The only difference to any other night was his sobriety.

Another crack of thunder and d'Artagnan closed his eyes and moaned slightly. Athos took the half finished glass of wine set it on the table. The Gascon youth didn't seem to notice. That was when Athos realized his own heart had seemed to thaw. He'd cared for very little when he'd joined the Musketeers. He cared less for his own safety than for anything else. He had soon realized that becoming a Musketeer hadn't relieved him of any responsibility. As Comte de la Fere, the people of La Fere had turned to him in troubled times, depended on him for justice. In escaping to join the Musketeers, he had merely made his responsibilities more intimate. He depended on his men and his men depended on him. Porthos and Aramis had been the only two to breech his personal defenses and lay claim to what was left of his heart. He looked after them as well as he could, and they, in turn, looked after him. He had accepted long ago that they had become his brothers. He needed no one else in his life.

Why then should the plight of this farmer's son touch him so deeply?

D'Artagnan's plight had barely registered amidst his preoccupation with his own misery. He'd not expected the depth and breadth of the young Gascon's emotions. Grief, yes, but there was abandonment, bewilderment, isolation, confusion, anger…he tried to remember back to the early days after losing his brother, after finding out his wife was a murderer, and he realized it was all just a haze. Without his brother, his last remaining family member, there was no one to help him grieve. That was the role his wife should have taken, but as she'd murdered Thomas, it was a role she was ill equipped to assume. The solitary grieving had him thinking himself mad for some time. That's what this boy faced now. That thought was overwhelming for him. What must it be like to d'Artagnan? The boy must have someone to help him through this. Mustn't he?

Once he'd been released and pardoned, Athos had begun to realize that d'Artagnan reminded him of someone. It eluded him for some time, and he realized that was because the resemblance wasn't physical. No, it was a much different resemblance.

Athos's brother, Thomas, had been even-tempered, lousy with a sword, unwilling to learn all but the basics as far as defending himself, and more willing to take on responsibilities of the Comte de la Fere than Athos was himself. D'Artagnan was brilliant with a sword, willing to learn, and able to admit to mistakes—as evidenced by his willingness to accept that Athos was not his father's murderer—and less at home on a farm than he would have liked given how much he seemed to have respected his father.

D'Artagnan didn't remind Athos of Thomas. He reminded Athos of himself. Good with a sword, quick to defend the defenseless, acting on his emotions rather than thinking things through rationally. These were all things he had done himself before he had forced himself to learn how to rein in such things, to control his temper, to think before acting. D'Artagnan seemed like his brother but only in the sense that Athos and d'Artagnan should have been born brothers and were not, much like himself and Aramis and Porthos.

The thought shocked him, and in his surprise, he forgot about d'Artagnan's pain for a moment. He'd never compared a new acquaintance with Aramis and Porthos. His obstinate side rebelled at the comparison. The friendship he shared with those two was quite enough. He needed no one else. Certainly not a wet behind the ears boy…

His gaze shifted to the boy in question. He had dozed off with his head at an awkward angle that made Athos wince. If Athos left him in that position, he'd barely be able to raise his head come morning. Athos moved the Gascon to his own bed and made him as comfortable as he was able. Then he retrieved a spare blanket and pillow and made himself comfortable on the floor.

He wanted to drink, but lacked the energy and the motivation to fetch a bottle. His thoughts chased themselves around his head, and he permitted it. He watched d'Artagnan sleep thinking only that he would be better off heading home to Gascony than lingering in Paris. Someone must be waiting for word back in…what was it? Lupiac? Someone…a mother, a sibling, a best friend…would be waiting for him. Unable to confirm the feeble hope, Athos let his thoughts and questions chase themselves around his head as he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, when he awoke, he was alone.

He glared at the sun streaming through his window as though that celestial body were to blame for d'Artagnan being missing. Dressing in a hurry, Athos went in search of him.

It was later than he'd thought, and he felt justified in knocking on the door of the Bonacieux house.

"Athos?" Madame Bonacieux seemed surprised to see him.

"Madame," Athos said removing his hat, "I was wondering if d'Artagnan is at home."

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. He came back early this morning, packed his things and left. He said he had to go home to bury his father."

"He's gone." It wasn't what Athos had expected to hear and he was shocked at how bereft the news left him. "He's gone." Athos said it again.

Madame Bonacieux nodded. "Athos, are you all right."

Athos inhaled and put his had back on his head. He gave her a quick nod. "I am well, Madame, thank you. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"It's no bother," she called out to him, but he had stopped listening and was walking away.

He returned to the Garrison and told Aramis and Porthos that d'Artagnan had gone. Then he'd joined in the training of the new recruits until Treville had to intervene to keep the lads whole.

**The Musketeers**

Lupiac's church was small, wooden, and, by Parisian standards, modest, but it suited the needs of the people. D'Artagnan sat alone in the front pew going over the arrangements in his mind. His only real worry was the pallbearers. His father's friends had insisted on doing it, with him helping of course, though he knew they still saw him as a child. What worried him was that they seemed old and fragile. He'd never them this way before. Had his father's death made him think these men must follow him soon?

He shook his head hoping that would clear it, but knowing it wouldn't. He'd heard too much at the wake last night. He'd sat in the local tavern listening to the stories, the laughter of oft-repeated tales. At first he'd laughed, too, but the laughter soon rang false in his ear. It seemed too much of a contrast to the heaviness of his heart. How could he laugh now? How could he ever laugh again now that his father would never share the joke? He'd sat at the bar, not drinking, not daring to raise his eyes to look at his neighbors. He could not bear to see the sympathy, or worse, the accusations, in the eyes of his friends.

He knew some of them thought him too reckless. On hearing Alexandre d'Artagnan had been killed in an Inn a few hours outside of Paris, some of them, at least, would blame him.

D'Artagnan had heard the whispers.

There were hints, suggestions, that Alexandre's son must have _done_ something, must have _said _something, to enrage the bandits. Perhaps they had killed the senior d'Artagnan as a lesson to _him_. Perhaps they had killed him because Alexandre had tried to protect his impetuous offspring from the consequences of his actions. Certainly Alexandre d'Artagnan would have talked them out of it. The fault must lie with Charles.

He'd pretended not to hear. He'd lacked the strength—and the will—to defend himself. How could he when he agreed with them? He knew he'd said nothing, done nothing to save his father. He'd not been there, but that was it's own problem. He imagined himself admitting that he'd been nowhere near his father when the fatal blow fell. The accusations would merely shift. _You left him alone? You were not there to help? _Regardless of the contradiction, he knew that's what they would say. He was either guilty for having provoked the bandits directly, or he was guilty for not being there at all to defend the man who meant more to him than anyone.

He remained silent. He already condemned himself. Hearing these people condemn him would be his undoing.

Only one person had seemed to be above it all. One person had seemed to understand what d'Artagnan was feeling. "Charles?" the voice had called to him.

"Madame Boucher," he'd stood and moved to embrace her. This woman was the closest to family he had. His father had hired her when his mother had died to come to their home and clean for them. Eventually, she'd begun cooking for them, and on days when his father was away or too busy, it was to her that he'd run when he was a small child for comfort with some small injury—a scraped knee, a bloody elbow. She was there to dry his tears and bandage his hurts.

Her age was undetermined in his mind. She'd seemed always to look so old, yet so vital. Her gray hair was pulled back away from her face and secured in a chignon. Her rosy cheeks were stained with tears, the sight of which made his breath hitch. The look on her face was tinged with sorrow and concern. It was the first hint of concern he'd found in the faces of his friends and neighbors.

"Oh, my dear Charles," she spoke softly. "What a loss for you to face, and so young!" She threw her hands up and gazed at the ceiling as though beseeching God for the strength to go on. She finally looked at him critically. "You have lost weight! You're not eating. I will come and cook for you."

"Madame, thank you, but there is no need." The truth was he'd had little appetite since returning, and less time to see to that sort of thing.

"Will you cook for yourself?" She asked him, her eyes boring into him.

He opened his mouth to reply not knowing what he would say, but she gave him no chance. "Of course you won't! You must eat! What will you do?" Tears welled in her eyes, and in the face of her genuine sorrow and concern for him, he felt his own control slip. The numbness on which he had relied was replaced by a weight of loss and pain too heavy for him to bear alone. He could not hold back a gasp as it took hold of him. Alone. That's what he was now. A word came unbidden and unwelcome to his mind as though through a drunken haze: orphan. He balked at it. He could not conceive of it applying to him though, intellectually, he knew it did.

He blinked rapidly to hide his tears. He feared if he started to cry he would never stop.

Madame Bucher tutted and stepped forward embracing him, whispering and making shushing noises. In the face of such understanding and sympathy, he could control himself no longer. He clung to her trying to hold back the tears or at least to cry quietly. The neighbors gathered to drink to his father's memory seemed intent on laughing and telling humorous stories. His grief seemed somehow out of place.

As he clung to Madame Boucher, he recalled his mother's funeral. He had been so young. How little he'd understood then, how bereft he'd felt without her, but this—_Mother, forgive me!_—this was so much worse.

As unlikely as it might seem, his father had been his best friend, his anchor, his teacher. D'Artagnan could not recall a day that his father hadn't taught him something, a day where they hadn't laughed uproariously at something.

How would he live without his father?

Returning from Paris had been difficult enough. Making funeral arrangements had been nearly impossible. That was next to nothing, however, against a new realization. After the funeral, he would have to rise early and go about his day as he would always have done, yet sans his father's reassuring presence, his guiding hand, his easy laughter. He doubted himself. He doubted he was capable of adjusting to such an absence. His strength had faltered.

His tears, he knew, would flow until he consciously stopped them, so he willed them to stop. He pulled back from Madame Bucher. "Forgive me, Madame." He could see she wanted to help him, to say something.

"I will come to the house tomorrow with food." She said the words, but he could see she wanted to say so much more. He didn't argue.

Now, he realized, the flood of memories from just last night were distracting him from the funeral.

The mass had been both strangely long and strangely brief. His attention shifted in and out, noticing first the cut and color of Father Alain's vestments and next the noise of the pew as he shifted his weight. He could not focus long on the priest's words, nor could he follow the prayers, though he had heard them all his life. Whether from exhaustion or grief, the day passed from moment to moment with a surreal quality, which made him doubt both his perception and his sanity.

The priest stepped forward now, arms raised as he said his final prayers. He stopped speaking in mid-word and it took d'Artagnan a moment to realize the man had fallen silent. He glanced up at the man in confusion to see him staring towards the door of the church. He also noticed that the attention of everyone else in the church was focused in the same direction.

D'Artagnan turned around and saw three men stood in the doorway. Strong, tall, imposing, and wearing the familiar blue cloaks of the Musketeers. Such a sight was rare in Lupiac, but d'Artagnan knew these men. These three Musketeers were Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He gaped in shock, blinking at the sight he'd never imagined he would see.


	2. Chapter 2

In gratitude for the multitude of emails notifying me that my first chapter wasn't formatted properly, I've decided to post chapter two. I think this will be about eight to ten chapters in total. Please read and review!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 2

Funerals and Friendship

Aramis took a step forward, hat in hands, and the other two Musketeers hastily removed their own. "Forgive the intrusion, Father," He said, bowing slightly. "We meant only to pay our respects."

As one, the Musketeers genuflected, crossed themselves, and made their way to sit in the last pew.

A murmur raced through the congregation at this admission as people whispered. How was it three of the King's Guard had come all the way to Lupiac to attend the funeral of Alexandre d'Artagnan?

A few people gazed at d'Artagnan as though this might be a bad thing and somehow his fault.

The priest finished his prayers and indicated to d'Artagnan and the other pallbearers that they should take their places.

D'Artagnan rose and took his place at the front right. He glanced at the other men, and the trepidation he'd kept at bay throughout the mass now bubbled up to worry him. "Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked the oldest and frailest of the group. It was a man who had known his father all his life. They'd grown up together, and d'Artagnan had sometimes called the man uncle when he'd been small.

The man nodded and signaled to the others that he was ready. Together they raised the coffin, but only d'Artagnan could hold it. The other men could not manage and down it came.

D'Artagnan's eyes were wide in shock and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from wailing and pushing them away from the coffin. Instead he leaned close to the nearest man. "Can you manage?"

"He is my friend. _Our _friend," he said indicating the other two men, and there was indignation and a proprietary tone in his voice as though d'Artagnan were an outsider and their dropping the coffin was his fault, not theirs. "We can manage."

D'Artaganan could barely contain himself. Were it not for the fact that he knew his father would not look kindly on an emotional outburst he would have had one. _He is your friend_, d'Artagnan thought, _but he is _my_ father. Do not drop him again._

Again they lifted him. For a moment, d'Artagnan thought all would be well, but the moment passed, and the coffin dropped once more.

D'Artagnan was beside himself. He bit his tongue. His hands trembling, he looked at the men and with barely controlled impatience, asked them if they required help.

They defiantly insisted they needed no help and again, they lifted. Again, the coffin dropped.

It was all d'Artagnan could do to maintain his composure. He felt a tear slip from beneath his closed eyelids and willed himself to shed no more. He waited more than a few moments before turning to the men once more. "If you need help…"

"We don't!" The man he'd called uncle looked at him with a sneer on his face, and d'Artagnan could not help but be taken aback. He inhaled deeply and willed away the tears of frustration and grief that threatened to fall and make him appear to be the child they thought he was.

"I understand that you want to do this, but surely we can call on more of my father's friends…"

The man made a sound somewhere between outrage and irritation, and clasped the coffin once more.

D'Artagnan took the hint and moved back into position. He closed his eyes and held his breath as they lifted once more. He dared not hope that this would go well, and he braced himself for the drop. This time something was different. The coffin seemed lighter somehow. They carried it easily. Relief swept through d'Artagnan and he almost felt faint. He turned to smile his gratitude at the other men and understood what made the coffin lighter.

Aramis stood behind him, hands clasped on the coffin, adding his strength to d'Artagnan's and the others. At the foot of the coffin stood Athos, and he acknowledged d'Artagnan with the subtlest of nods. Porthos stood on the other side across from Aramis. Where there had been four—three old men and one distraught son—there were now seven.

"Aramis…" he began.

Aramis shook his head. "We will talk later, my friend."

D'Artagnan turned and saw the same understanding look in both Porthos's and Athos's eyes. He swallowed and stood a bit straighter as they left the church.

The walk to the churchyard was less an ordeal now, and they covered the ground more quickly than he could have hoped. During the brief ceremony, last prayers and the lowering of the coffin into the ground, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stood by d'Artagnan. It seemed as though, having reached his side, they could not bear to leave him alone.

After Father Alain finished the final prayers, Aramis said a quick prayer as well. Then the congregation began to step forward. Some asked outright who the Musketeers were, but all d'Artagnan would say was that he had met them in Paris and they had brought his father's murderer to justice. It was true to a point, but it satisfied none of them. Some just stared outright obviously considering the Musketeers to be interlopers. Parisians cared nothing for Gascony, and d'Artagnan's neighbors didn't believe they were here with good intentions.

People stepped forward one by one to shake his hand, offer condolences, or commiserate with him. D'Artagnan smiled when appropriate, though the smile never reached his eyes. He nodded when correct to do so, and he added to the conversation when it was expected, though later he would recall neither what he had said nor what had been said to him. With so many neighbors attending, d'Artagnan, who'd slept little since his father had died in his arms, found his strength deserting him.

When he wavered and he was sure he would fall down where he stood, he felt a hand on his shoulder lending him strength. Turning, he saw Athos nod once, and felt he could go on.

It was when his nearest neighbor came towards him, a familiar gleam in his eye that d'Artagnan actually groaned aloud.

The Musketeers drew to attention at this.

"Who is he?" Porthos asked his eyes narrowing as he took in this man who had so obviously upset d'Artagnan with just his presence.

D'Artagnan sighed. "He owns the farm next to my fath…" d'Artagnan stopped and cleared his throat as he realized what he was about to say and the truth of it. "…the farm next to mine. He's always after my father to sell all or part of our land. My father caught him once trying to move the fence posts to claim some of our property hoping no doubt that we wouldn't notice. He claimed it was a miscalculation when he repaired the fence."

The big Musketeer nodded and moved fractionally closer to d'Artagnan.

"Monsieur Lambert, thank you for coming," d'Artagnan said. He was quick to open the conversation. He knew Lambert would feel thrown off balance by that, since he rarely spoke to the man. D'Artagnan had often insisted his father was too tolerant of their neighbor.

"Ah, young Charles," he said. "So sad. So sad." The man went on for a while speaking much but saying little, but it was something he said in the midst of the string of condolences that suddenly drew d'Artagnan's attention.

"What was that, Monsieur?" D'Artagnan blinked.

The man smiled a disingenuous smile. "You heard me. The offer stands. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement…"

"Are you seriously trying to buy my farm at my father's funeral?" He gestured to the open grave. "He is not yet covered by earth. He is barely in the ground…" d'Artagnan's voice cracked, and his hands both clenched in fists, his knuckles white, as he tried to rein in the anger that had come from nowhere and all but consumed him.

He could feel Athos tighten his grip on his shoulder. Porthos moved closer to his side and Aramis cleared his throat before stepping forward. "Thank you so much for coming, Monsieur," Aramis said in a soft voice full of sorrow. "As you can imagine, it's been a difficult few days for young d'Artagnan. We're just going to see him home, you understand…" Aramis kept talking as he slung an arm around Monsieur Lambert's shoulders and led him away.

D'Artagnan stared after them, his sudden rush of rage vanishing almost immediately. He simply did not have the strength to maintain it. It left him feeling raw and spent.

Athos patted his shoulder and stepped around to face him. Porthos meanwhile moved his hand to D'Artagnan's neck as though attempting to hold him upright, and, d'Artagnan had to admit, he very nearly was.

Athos spoke in a soft whisper, his eyes on d'Artagnan's. "If you have had enough, we can see you home and make your apologies to those who are still here."

Porthos squeezed his neck both in silent agreement and in a show of support.

D'Artagnan was speechless for a moment overwhelmed that these men had come all the way from Paris and would offer to do this for him. He who had challenged Athos to a fight to the death, had accused him of murder…

He was tempted, sorely tempted, to let them cosset him. To relinquish the burden of the last few days would seem a delicious luxury, but he knew what his father would say. He stood a little straighter squaring his shoulders. "Thank you, but no. I'm fine. I'll see this through. It is my duty to my father. My last duty."

Athos gave one quick nod of agreement, and, d'Artagnan thought, approval, and moved back to his previous position slightly behind d'Artagnan. By this time, Aramis had returned and he stood next to Athos. Porthos stood a subtle space ahead of the others and glowered at the remaining guests, which did keep their comments short and moved the line along.

Though they'd known this young man all of his life, the Gascon natives were intimidated it seemed by the three well-armed Musketeers who surrounded him.

For those who were not intimidated, Aramis, it is to be confessed, stepped in and hurried them along when it seemed they might linger. A well-placed word and they found it impossible to remain after the polite suggestion that they were so generous to sacrifice their time when they must be so busy themselves.

When they had all gone, or at least lost interest in him, he moved to Father Alain. Thanking him again for his help and his prayers, he finally found himself having met all duties required of him.

He was at a loss as to what to do next. He looked for a long while at the fresh gravestone, so new the name was not yet carved on it. It had cost more than he could afford, but as it was the last thing he could do for his father, he had not balked at the price. He blinked at the stone, saw the gravediggers come forward and begin to fill in the hole. He watched them feeling that as each shovel full of dirt hit the coffin below, his father was somehow moving further and further from him.

"I don't know what to do now," he whispered to the slowly filling grave.

"Now you go home," Athos said softly. D'Artagnan turned to see the trio standing nearby waiting for him.

"You came. I..I'm grateful," he admitted. "How did you know?"

Porthos smiled. "Your lady friend…"

"Landlady," Aramis corrected.

"Landlady," agreed Porthos. "Madame Bonacieux said you'd gone 'ome to bury your father. We thought we should pay our respects."

"But you didn't know him," d'Artagnan said then realized how that sounded. "I mean…I didn't…"

"Peace, d'Artagnan," Aramis said holding up a hand to forestall the apologies. "You are quite right. We've never met your father, but his son is an honorable man whom we admire and respect, and to whom we owe a great deal."

"You owe me nothing."

Aramis nodded seeming to consider the words. "We do not reckon debt as others do, but it is a conversation for another time. Come. We'll see you home."

D'Artagnan agreed. "You must stay with me."

"No, no. We wouldn't want to intrude," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan smiled. "It's an invitation, not an intrusion."

Aramis smiled in return at hearing his own words thrown back at him. He glanced at Athos and Porthos. D'Artagnan saw some silent communication between them and marveled at it. Aramis then tipped his hat in acquiescence.

**The Musketeers**

The farmhouse was cozy, well built, and a bit larger than Aramis had imagined. The furnishings were worn, the curtains faded, but it was clean, tidy, and stepping inside was like being folded into an embrace by a long absent but dear friend.

"Charles d'Artagnan, gentleman farmer," Aramis said as they took seats around the front room.

D'Artagnan, building up a fire in the oversized fireplace shook his head. "Not much of a gentleman, and my father was the better farmer."

"How are you holding up?" Porthos asked concern warming his voice.

D'Artagnan shrugged as he stood, the fire ablaze and already taking the chill from the house. "Better than I imagined. Worse than I would like."

The honesty of the answer was unexpected and Aramis saw by the looks on his companions' faces that they were equally surprised.

D'Artagnan left the room for a moment and returned with two bottles of wine and four glasses. He uncorked the first bottle and poured, passing the glasses around the room. "I am grateful for your help today," he confessed.

Aramis saw his eyes cloud a bit, but with rapid blinking, the lad cleared them. "If they had dropped him one more time…" he let the thought remain unfinished and turned to face the wall for a moment, clearly needing time to compose himself.

"We are Muskteers, d'Artagnan. We do whatever is needed." Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan chuckled humorlessly as he turned to face them. "I doubt that carrying the coffin of a Gascon farmer is a normal duty for Musketeers.

Porthos shrugged. "We're not normal Musketeers."

"No, I don't suppose you are. I heard the word _inseparable_ all over Paris." D'Artagnan looked at them expectantly clearly waiting for an explanation.

"Ah," said Aramis, "That's the Captain's fault. Captain Treville called us his Insperables once, and the name stuck."

D'Artragnan nodded and raised his glass. "Drink with me, to Alexandre d'Artagnan."

The Musketeers immediately raised their glasses and repeated the toast. Aramis watched d'Artagnan. He'd known at the churchyard that the young man was on the brink. He'd known before that. As the pallbearers repeatedly dropped their burden, he had been watching the lad. He had been about to break. He seemed nearer to breaking now.

At the church, he, Porthos, and Athos had risen of one accord with not a glance passing between them. They'd moved swiftly to take up the coffin and prevent it from dropping yet again. D'Artagnan's relief had been quite visible. As had his rising anger when Monsieur Lambert had put forth a bid on the farm. He shook his head at the audacity of the man.

Now he appeared calmer, surely, but to Aramis's eyes, no less fragile.

D'Artagnan set down his glass and took a seat glancing at Aramis. "Is it another time?"

Aramis blinked. "What?"

"You said you owed me a great deal and when I protested, you said it was a discussion for another time. I want to make it clear you don't owe me anything." He looked at each of them in turn, lingering a bit on Athos, his guilt almost painfully obvious. "Any of you."

"Ah, but that is a matter of opinion," Aramis began.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. "It's three to one. I reckon we win."

DArtagnan couldn't suppress a smile. "It doesn't work that way."

Porthos shrugged. "It works pretty much how we say it works."

"As you heard Aramis say," Athos said, drawing d'Artagnan's attention as he'd said so little until now. "We do not tally debt as other men do."

D'Artagnan studied Athos staring, summing up, evaluating, his every emotion earning a brief appearance in the brown depths of his troubled eyes. Aramis realized how disparate Athos and d'Artagnan were in that regard. They seemed similar in so many ways, and yet Athos never permitted any thought of his to show upon his face.

"And what," d'Artagnan asked, "is that supposed to mean?"

Athos drained his glass and set it down. He looked the young Gascon in the eye. "We are here to offer our services. You helped clear my name and save me from execution. In gratitude, we offer our help. If you are ever in need, you have only to tell us and we will be at your command."

Aramis thought Athos put it rather well, though he could have done without mention of Athos's near execution. The mention of it brought to mind the sight of this man whom he loved like a brother demanding to be shot. He had to clench his eyes shut for a moment to banish the memory. He opened his eyes and reached for his wine.

"I don't think life works that way," d'Artagnan was saying.

Porthos laughed. "Didn't you 'ear me?"

"Yes, yes, it works the way you say…but surely your duties…"

"We have a rather understanding captain." Athos admitted. "The offer stands." He uncorked the second bottle of wine and poured, passing the bottle to Porthos at the man's expectant look. "Come, drink to our accord and we will say no more about it."

D'Artagnan looked at each of them in turn and Aramis wondered if he might not take them seriously. In the end, he nodded and they drank again. It was then that Madame Boucher arrived with a large covered pot.

Seeing d'Artagnan's guests, she smiled and bustled into the kitchen.

D'Artagnan excused himself and followed.

Aramis heard hushed voices, and a moment later, d'Artagnan returned. "It seems

she insists on feeding me, and as she's bought enough for an army, she'd like to include all of you as well."

Aramis smiled. "She seems a formidable woman."

D'Artagnan nodded. "You've no idea."

"You're fond of her," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "She's the closest thing I have to family now." A wistful look passed over his face and he visibly shook himself free of it. "Gentlemen, please stay with me tonight. We'll eat Madame Boucher's fine stew, and drink all you like. My father has quite a selection of wines in the cellar. He makes…_made_…his own…" His voice trailed off as though a sudden realization hit him. His face darkened and he frowned a bit sitting heavily on the nearest empty chair.

He was silent for a time, and Aramis's concern made him ask. "What is it? D'Artagnan, are you all right?"

Again the headshake, and d'Artagnan looked at Aramis with a forced smile on his face that did not diminish the sight of the moistness around his eyes. As he spoke, his voice grew quieter and quieter. "The wine…he always thought I would learn more about wine making if I could figure out his recipe, his process, on my own. Every summer, I tried to do it. Every summer, I got more wrong than right. This year, if my attempt failed, he'd promised to explain what mistakes I was making. We were to sample my latest attempt and determine where I went wrong. This summer…" He covered his eyes with his hand and with a massive shudder forced the sorrow away. He stood. "Forgive me. It's been a long day."

Aramis felt helpless in the face of such sorrow. He knew what it meant to treasure a bit of your past. He had long ago learned how his father made his wonderful brandy and the thought of having lost that link to him made him shudder. He was about to speak to the lad, but he disappeared into the next room. They heard a door close quietly. "He's not coping," Aramis whispered.

"It's early days yet. The sting of it is tender. His time in Paris delayed his grieving." Athos insisted as he placed his half empty wine glass on the table.

Aramis could see the man was brooding again, but he couldn't guess what had triggered it. He often felt helpless in the face of Athos's darkest moods. Aramis wished with all his heart and soul to help him, but was unable to find a way. If Athos's dark moods lasted too long, or took too deep a hold, Aramis would obsess on finding a way to help him. When he found nothing, his helplessness would sometimes leave him feeling much as he had five years ago in the early days after the incident at Savoy. Rattled. Unable to focus. Heightened anxiety. An inability to permit either Porthos or Athos out of his sight lest something happen to them. The first few times that had happened, it was Porthos who had helped Aramis deal with the ghosts from his past. After that, when Porthos always saw this coming on, and he would usually do something to snap Athos out of it, but Aramis never knew what. The big Musketeer wouldn't permit Athos's self-destructive tendencies to spill over and harm Aramis.

"True enough," Porthos said, agreeing with Athos's assessment. "He was held together by determination and little else while we were trying to prove your innocence."

Porthos's words had brought to mind that hurried, frantic time in Paris as they had rushed about trying to find some way to prove Athos's innocence. Aramis had long suspected, after d'Artagnan had left and he'd had time to consider it, that d'Artagnan had likely slept little and eaten less during his short time in Paris. When they'd recruited him at the Bonacieux home, the boy had a haunted look in his eye, and Aramis had later realized that while it was grief over the loss of his father, it was also guilt at being unsure if he had accused the right man.

Aramis looked from Porthos to Athos. "So…that's it? We must help him."

"There isn't much we can do," Athos said.

"True enough," Porthos said again, though quieter and with more than a bit of regret.

Aramis sighed and that quickly d'Artagnan was back among them. His collar was a bit wet, as though he'd just washed his face. His coat was gone, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow.

"So, how was your ride from Paris," he asked. It wasn't a wonderful topic of conversation, but they all recognized it for the distraction it was.

Porthos was actively trying to get d'Artagnan to laugh, and each time he did—though it was more an appreciative chuckle than the belly laugh he was hoping to provoke—the look on the Musketeer's face spoke of victory.

Madame Boucher entered the room and called them all to dinner. D'Artagnan rose quickly and kissed her cheek. She blushed and batted at him with her tea towel. They insisted she eat with them, and before long they were regaling her with tales of Paris, with news of the King and Queen, and with descriptions of the Palace that widened her eyes and made her giggle like a little girl.

Before the meal was finished, d'Artagnan was struggling to remain awake. The warmth of the fire, the congenial conversation, a full belly, the abundant wine, not to mention the stress of the last week and the lack of any significant rest had conspired to both relax him and rob him of his strength and stamina.

"To bed with you, Charles," Madame Boucher laughed, and d'Artagnan smiled sheepishly.

The Musketeers laughed, and joined Madame in her cajoling.

"We will find our own beds, d'Artagnan," Aramis said as the man finally agreed and slipped off to bed.

Madame Boucher's eyes followed him, and her smile evaporated without a trace.

She crossed herself, and cast her eyes heavenward. "Poor boy," she whispered.

"Is there no one for him here?" Athos asked.

She shook her head sadly. "Just me, and I am an old woman with grandchildren. His father meant the world to him. They clung to each other when his mother died. Poor Charlotte. Too young."

"How old was he when his mother passed," Aramis had to know.

"He was not yet six. It was only a few days before his sixth birthday." She glanced down the corridor and once she was sure d'Artagnan was truly abed, she sighed. "I should not be telling you. It is his story, but you are such nice men. He needs friends like you."

Aramis glanced at Athos wondering how he would take being assumed to be a friend to a boy he barely knew. It had been Athos's idea to come here, but Aramis was not sure he had friendship in mind. He rarely knew what Athos had in mind. He'd greeted Aramis and Porthos as they'd come into the garrison not quite a full day after d'Artagnan had left and told them he'd secured time off from Treville and they were riding for Lupiac. They mounted and rode, and Athos gave them the truth of it as they traveled. He'd been surprised that Athos had so wanted to be there for the senior d'Artagnan's funeral.

Aramis knew the boy had some sort of hold on Athos. It was in the wistful expression he sometimes wore when he looked at d'Artagnan and thought no one saw him. It was in the ready way he'd stepped in at the funeral both in helping the pallbearers and in standing by d'Artagnan's side in the churchyard while Aramis dealt with Monsieur Lambert.

Athos did not react to Madame Boucher's words, so Aramis and Porthos encouraged her to tell them what she could of their young friend.

She sighed and sat down abandoning the dishes. "Charlotte and Charles would often go walking. They would collect flowers, herbs, swim in the stream nearby. He was too little to help on the farm, which upset him no end, I can tell you!" She smiled at the memory, and Aramis could imagine a little d'Artagnan raging against being unable to do a man's work.

"He used to demand his father take him to work in the fields, but he was so tiny for his age…" she threw up her hands, but stopped and found the thread of her story. "He told us all of this in bits and pieces over the months following, but one day, they were out by the stream. It had rained the day before, but the sun had dried the ground, and we had no way of knowing that worse rains were coming. The storm came out of nowhere. Charles used to love rainstorms. He was giddy at the sight. Loved the sound of thunder, and the sudden lightning flashes. He stood on a rock and looked up at the clouds. The rain came fast and sudden and the stream swelled above its banks. He was swept away. He heard his mother scream. He was tossed around a bit, and then felt her arms around him. She dove in and grabbed him. Then his father was there, and Charlotte handed Charles out to Alexandre. Alexandre put him down by the banks and reached back for Charlotte, but the river swelled and shifted, and she was gone. Her body was found days later and several miles away." Again the woman crossed herself shaking her head sadly.

The Musketeers had fallen silent. What could they say after hearing a story like that? Porthos wiped a tear from his eye. Athos reached for the wine, and Aramis for his rosary. "Mon dieu," Aramis whispered crossing himself. To have lived through something like that…

"Rain," Athos said.

"What?" Porthos asked.

"That was the one thing he said to me his last night in Paris. I was fairly drunk, but he…his grief and the wine had made him sullen." Athos swirled the remnants of wine in the bottom of his glass. "He held his father as the rain fell and his life slipped from him."

"There was a bad storm that night. It came down in sheets," Aramis recalled.

Porthos snorted. "More like blankets."

Madame Boucher stood and cleared the dishes to the sink and began washing. "He hated storms after that. He would hide under tables, chairs, in barns, and he would scream. Oh, he would scream!" She cried then, her heart breaking again for the boy.

Aramis stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. She put her hand on top of it and turned to him. "He is a good boy, but he is no farmer. His mind was always on other things. Oh, he is good at it. He learned well everything his father taught him. I know him, though. His heart is broken. He will stay here for me, for the men he employs, but his heart won't be in it. He's always been an outsider." She shook her head. "He clung to his father after his mother's death, forsaking other friendships. Alexandre was the center of his world. Without him…" She made a small sound almost of pity and sorrow. "He won't last. He will not recover. There is no one for him to cling to now." She looked up at Aramis, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears and full of hope. "Take him with you. Make him go to Paris. He should seek a life for himself there, for he will torture himself with memories if he remains in this house."

Athos cleared his throat and Aramis turned to look at him. To his surprise, the Musketeer had paled. "We can speak to him, but whatever happens, he must choose his own path," Athos said as he rose and left the room. Aramis heard him walk down the hall and open and close a door. Athos had found his bed for the evening.

Aramis sighed and shook his head. There would be no interrogating the other man tonight. It was unlikely he'd ever unravel whatever was going through Athos's mind now. He turned back to the conversation at hand.

"Come, Madame Boucher, it is late. Let Porthos see you home. I will clean up and we will return your pot to you in the morning."

She argued for a bit, but when Porthos smiled at her, she could not refuse. He walked her home, and Aramis found himself alone and thoughtful. The boy's life had been turned upside down merely because he and his father had decided to go to Paris and petition the King for a reduction in taxes for all of Gascony. A futile hope, to be sure, and certainly the King, had he even agreed to see them, would have refused such a petition. In effect, Alexandre d'Artagnan had died for nothing. One day, his son would realize that. Aramis shuddered to think how the Gascon would take it. He sighed as he scrubbed the dishes and shook his head in concern. The boy had chosen vengeance when his father was killed, and then he'd tormented himself when he realized there was a chance the man he'd accused could be innocent. Self-torment seemed to be an automatic response for him. He was just like Athos in that respect.

Things were so complicated. Madame Boucher had confirmed thoughts he'd been entertaining since d'Artagnan had left Paris. He assumed Porthos had the same thoughts, but it was Athos who was so hard to read. True, the trip to Lupiac had been his idea. True, he had stood by d'Artagnan with no prompting from either Porthos or himself. It was, however, also true that when Madame Boucher had suggested that d'Artagnan would be better off in Paris than alone on the family farm in Lupiac, Athos's color had drained from his face. What did that mean?

He was still puzzling over this when Porthos returned.

Porthos looked around the spotless kitchen. "You'll make someone a fine wife one day," Porthos smirked.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," Aramis replied.

"God made dirt," Porthos countered.

Aramis blinked. "I have no response to that…"

Porthos smiled and interrupted. "Good. I like winning."

"…Because I think we should talk about something else."

Porthos sat. "You want 'im to come to Paris like she said."

"So do you."

Porthos nodded. "True enough. What do you think Athos wants?"

Aramis sighed and took a seat next to his friend. "If I could tell from one minute to the next what he wants I'd be talking to him right now instead of you."

"Thanks!" Porthos growled.

"You know what I mean, old friend." Aramis placed his hand on Porthos's shoulder.

"I do, but you know Athos. Even if 'e agrees, he won't act on it. He'll want d'Artagnan to come to Paris of 'is own accord. If I read 'im right, d'Artagnan won't come unless 'e's sure we want 'im to."

"Ah," said Aramis, hearing the very words he himself had been thinking. "You mean he won't come unless he's asked."

"Yeah," Porthos replied.

Aramis sighed again. There it was in a nutshell. How would they get their friends to admit they needed each other?


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the delay. I'm hard at work on the next chapter, after which things should go a bit smoother. Thanks to everyone who stuck with it until I got the formatting worked out. I appreciate it. Thanks also for the reviews. They keep me going!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 3

Plots and Promises

Athos sat on the small but comfortable bed in the room he had chosen. He sighed as he removed his shoes and tried to settle down for the evening. He knew sleep would not come, but his thoughts were not of sleep. He could think only of d'Artagnan.

When Madame Boucher had told the tale of the lad's mother's death, Athos could not comprehend how the boy had managed to get past it. She said he had clung to his father, and that explained much about the boy's reaction to the man's death. He had lost the center of his universe. Losing a loved one was hard enough. Harder still was to begin to believe that something conspired to rob you of all that you loved.

_He won't last. He will not recover. _

She had sounded so certain. He rubbed a hand across his face. Wondering not for the first time why he'd insisted they come. He was glad they had if only to help in the church. He'd watched d'Artagnan slowly come apart each time the pallbearers dropped the coffin. He'd seen the swell of grief, anger, and frustration and he'd risen from the pew—not at all surprised to see his friends rise with him—and moved to help.

He admired the way d'Artagnan had handled himself in the churchyard. When Aramis had led that fool Lambert away, Athos had seriously believed his friend—ah, yes, and friend he was—had had enough. He was more than willing to step in bringing all the grace and diplomacy his experience as Comte de la Fere had given him to assuage whatever hurt feelings d'Artagnan's early departure might bring.

Yet the boy had surprised him. He'd squared his shoulders, banished the anger and outrage Lambert's inappropriate offer had conjured, and he did what had to be done. Athos had been proud of him, but what right did he have to be proud? He barely knew the boy and yet…he shook his head. It wasn't about how long he'd known d'Artagnan. It was about having found a kindred spirit. That was what they were. D'Artagnan had somehow managed what no other ever had. Even Porthos and Aramis had not penetrated his resolve to remain alone and apart as quickly as d'Artagnan had.

_He clung to his father when he lost his mother. There is no one for him to cling to now._

The truth of Madame Boucher's words was obvious in d'Artagnan's every move. She was completely correct. The boy would stay, would work the farm and try to provide for Madame Boucher, a woman who was more than comfortable in her old age, who spoke of children and grandchildren. He would not be able to cling to her. He would not be able to make someone else's mother the center of his life no matter how well they knew each other. There would come a time when the woman, formidable as she was, would be unable to come to his home every day just to cook for him. There was even a chance that someone, a husband, a son, would protest and intervene if she were to spend too much time looking after the boy. If she did stop coming, he could foresee d'Artagnan forgetting to eat, opting not to prepare a meal because after working in the fields all day, it was simply more than he could manage.

_He will torture himself with memories if he remains in this house._

It was these words that had chased him from the company of his brothers. He knew too well how true they were. Had he not done the same? His own home had become room after room of memories best avoided after the death of his brother. When his father had passed, leaving him as the Comte de la Fere, had not he and Thomas clung to each other? Aside from being nobility, and financially better off then d'Artagnan, there were many similarities. When Thomas was gone, and the comfort he might have sought in his wife was denied him because you cannot seek comfort over a murder in the arms of the murderer, he had remained for a time in his home.

The very walls had seemed to mock him. Each room held memories, but even the good ones, the happy ones, brought him no comfort. He'd run from one room to another to escape a particularly poignant one only to be confronted by another that would bring him to his knees. The portraits, his brother, his wife, they accused him of stupidity, of blindness, of being a monster to have his wife killed, and of being a fool to allow his brother to die. He'd tortured himself with memories because he had nothing else. With nothing else to depend upon, he had turned to drink. He shuddered at the thought of d'Artagnan following him down that path.

_Take him with you. Make him go to Paris._

If he himself had not gone to Paris, he would not have met Aramis and Porthos. His life now would be bereft of hope. He could not conceive of any way he'd have survived without them. Granted, there were times when he leaned too heavily on the bottle, when, perhaps, he should lean instead on his brothers, but he had not yet the strength to release the crutch.

Even so, Aramis and Porthos had changed him. They had welcomed him. They had become his family. They defended him. They trusted him. They accepted him when he could not accept himself. He was a different man for having met them. He hoped one day he might share the rest of his burden with them. He had not kept it from them for fear that they would leave him. He had simply not found the strength or courage to face it all, to accept the assurances they would surely offer. He wasn't ready to hear those things yet. He knew what they would say. _You are not to blame. Your brother's death was not your fault. Your wife murdered your brother and put you in an impossible situation… _No. He could not hear those things yet.

Aramis and Porthos had done so much for him. Could the three of them do the same for d'Artagnan?

With these thoughts chasing around in his head, a troubled sleep soon claimed him.

**The Musketeers**

The next morning, the aroma of fresh eggs cooking woke Porthos and brought him from his borrowed bedroom to find his friends all sitting around the kitchen table once more.

"He is awake!" Aramis called out loudly.

"Let me get your breakfast," d'Artagnan added as he rose and turned to the stove.

Porthos sat down as d'Artagnan placed a full plate in front of him. After a few bites, he turned to d'Artagnan eyes wide in admiration. "You can cook, lad!"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "As I told Athos and Aramis, Madame Boucher insisted on teaching me the basics. She thought it prudent that I would know enough to feed my father and myself. She could only come a few times a week. She worried we would starve. My father and I took turns…" he cleared his throat, but didn't bother finishing the thought.

The trio of Musketeers kept the topic of conversation light all through breakfast, after which Porthos offered to walk to Madame Boucher's and return her pot to her.

Aramis glanced to Athos, but the man seemed lost in thought, so he got to his feet and offered to accompany Porthos.

Porthos, still thinking about the breakfast he'd just eaten, breathed deeply and glanced upwards. "Never seen a bluer sky. Air smells better, too."

Aramis chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"I never would have guessed you to be so enamored of the country life."

Porthos shook his head. "I'm no farmer. I've never lived outside of Paris, but I could do with a visit to the country once in awhile. D'Artagnan wouldn't mind a visitor every spring or summer."

"Duty permitting, of course." Aramis said.

"All right, out with it." Porthos stopped walking and glared at his friend.

"What?"

"You got somethin' on your mind. What is it?"

"The boy…"

Now Porthos chuckled.

Startled, Aramis turned to look at him. "What?"

"Saw that one coming. This is where we left it last night."

"The boy," Aramis continued. "He's alone. There's no one for him here."

"You don't know that. That church was full of people."

Aramis shook his head. "None of them stood with him. Madame Boucher told us he's all but alone. His affection for her, his duty to his father's memory, these things will keep him tied to this farm, but his life will be all but empty. He needs purpose."

Porthos looked away and started walking again. His head was down and his hands were fiddling with the pot they were returning to Madame Boucher. "There's more to it, of course."

"What?" Aramis blinked.

"He and his father were going to speak to the King about the taxes in Gascony. If his father hadn't been killed, and if against all odds, the King agreed to see them, they would have left disappointed. Tax relief?" He laughed a hollow laugh. "Nah, they would have gone home disappointed. Then what? If the taxes are bad enough to cause a…what…third, fourth generation farmer and his son to travel from Lupiac to Paris, they might 'ave been about to lose the farm. How long can D'Aratagnan keep things goin'? He's down a man now he's lost 'is father. Can he afford to hire another? Farming's an iffy business. The weather conditions, the soil, the number of men to plant and to harvest…all of that with a belly full of grief…how long d'you s'pose he'd keep the farm running?"

Aramis blinked again. "I will confess you amaze me sometimes."

Porthos smiled a lopsided grin. "You forget. I grew up listening to everything around me. A poor orphan from the Court of Miracles wasn't noticed if 'e was quiet. I learned a lot, and I remember it all."

"You haven't talked about the Court in a long time." Aramis said watching Porthos.

Porthos shrugged. "What's to say? You know the important bits."

"It's all important, Porthos."

Porthos sighed. Aramis tried every so often to get him to tell him all about what it was like to grow up in the Court of Miracles. He knew why. Aramis cared. It wasn't just being curious. He wanted to know what Porthos had gone through. Porthos, however, never did see the point of dwelling on the past. He could recognize Aramis's need to know. It was much the same after Savoy, but the other way around. Then it had been him begging Aramis to explain it all to him. He'd needed to understand what his friend had gone through. He'd needed to know so he could help Aramis deal with it. He didn't need the same sort of help getting over his past, but Aramis knowing what he did know often made things easier. It was how they were able to communicate with just a glance sometimes, and it was why, sometimes, the glance wasn't even necessary.

"Aye, it's all important. It made me who I am." He turned and looked Aramis in the eye. "What's the point, then, Aramis? Why should a lad like d'Artagnan suffer so much? What's to gain from it?"

"Gain? Whose gain? Are you speaking of God? God did not force suffering upon the boy. God gave him the strength to endure it. God gave him people to help him endure it." He gestured to himself and Porthos and waved vaguely back the way they'd come and presumably in Athos's direction.

"But why does it happen?"

"Ah, my friend, you are full of surprises today. You discuss farming like a true farmer, and you come straight to one of the most debated theological questions in the church."

"And?" Porthos asked.

"And…God doesn't make the bad things happen. They happen on their own."

Porthos scoffed. "There's plenty o' people who help the bad things along."

"Yes, granted, but they do that without divine intervention. Bad things happen. God gives us what we need to overcome them."

Porthos considered that for a minute before smiling. "All right."

Aramis smiled back. "So…we take him with us like Madame Boucher asked?"

Porthos nodded. "But we have to make it 'is idea."

The smile slipped from Aramis's face. Subtlety seemed like it might be lost on d'Artagnan just at the moment.

**The Musketeers**

It was nearing midday and the kitchen was spotless yet again. D'Artagnan put the last of the dishes away, and Athos poured a glass of wine for himself and one for his young friend. He pondered what Porthos and Aramis had told him about their search for Gaudet and a way to save his worthless hide from execution. There had been plenty of stories. Porthos almost daily regaled him with the details of d'Artagnan's observations of the body they'd found at the Inn, and how noticing there were two bullet holes where there should have been one had been their first indication of what had actually happened.

Aramis described the fight between d'Artagnan and Gaudet to the last detail including his instinctive—and effective—defense when Gaudet attacked after d'Artagnan's back was turned. He'd also included a description of the look on the young Gascon's face when he realized he'd killed Gaudet and what that might mean for Athos.

What struck Athos most about these stories was that Porthos and Aramis, men who were inclined to embellish stories at each retelling, never altered a word when they repeated them. This told Athos the boy's skills were as good as he thought they were. He'd been impressive enough at the Garrison when he'd come through the gate in a rage and challenged Athos in a duel to the death, but Athos had gone easy on him. Partly, this was due to the fact that he knew there was a misunderstanding. He had not killed anyone recently, and certainly not the lad's father at an Inn somewhere outside of Paris.

It had also been partly due to the fact that he could sense the boy wasn't at his best. He was protecting an injury, and Athos would not take advantage of that.

He doubted the lad had any idea of his own talent. Confidence he seemed to have in spades, but he could not have found many opponents in Lupiac. Whoever had taught him had done well, and, suspecting that was the lad's father, Athos thought it fitting that he be told just how good he was.

"Was it your ribs?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan had just seated himself at the table opposite Athos, and raised his glass to his lips. Putting it down untouched, he leaned on the table with both forearms crossed before him. "My ribs?" He visibly stiffened his arms to keep from touching said ribs.

"When we fought at the garrison, was it your ribs that were hurt? You have fine form, but the way you fought I could see you were hurting."

D'Artagnan sighed heavily. "I don't know how I thought I would best a King's Musketeer."

"Thinking didn't come into it. It was rage and grief that did your thinking for you that day." He looked d'Artagnan in the eye. "I would have done no less." He held the youth's eye for a moment before continuing. "I was also impressed with your skill. Who taught you the art of swordsmanship?"

"My father." He swallowed almost convulsively for a moment or two. "He taught me everything."

Athos cleared his throat. "Then he was a master swordsman himself. Not a common talent for a farmer. You do him credit."

D'Artagnan looked down and whispered bitterly. "I do him a disservice."

"Why would you say that?"

"He would not have approved of vengeance. He would not have approved of anything I have done. I never tried to see the King. I never tried to get the tax relief for Gascony that he was certain would save us all. I wanted only to fight, to kill…and I admit that since that day, I have often wished our places had been reversed."

A chill raced up and down Athos's spine at those words. "You can't mean that."

D'Artagnan didn't answer, but he did raise his head and look the older man in the eye. Athos could read the truth of it there. It had taken a toll on the young man, and he wasn't able to see an end to grief and misery. Athos suppressed a sigh. He'd been in a similar state for the last five years. To see it in one so young, so full of promise, made him wonder how Aramis and Porthos felt to see it in him.

"He wouldn't want that."

D'Artagnan looked away again. "You don't…_didn't_…know him. You've no idea what he would want." D'Artagnan reached for the wine bottle.

Athos grabbed the bottle first. He didn't pull it away, but he kept hold of it until d'Artagnan looked him in the eye once more. "No father wants his son to die. No father would wish so desolate an existence for his son that he would wish himself dead let alone actively pursue death." He released the wine bottle, but d'Artagnan left it where it was neither claiming it nor filling his glass.

"I haven't pursued it," d'Artagnan insisted softly.

Athos eyed the bottle, but it would undermine his point if he were to drain it dry himself, so he abandoned that idea. "D'Artagnan, I think you should know you have the makings of a good soldier. Assuming of course, you can learn to follow orders."

At d'Artagnan's confused look, a hint of a smile played across Athos's face. "Porthos and Aramis have told me that you challenged Gaudet though they advised stealth as a better tactic. A less talented swordsman would have seen his end there. Some part of you did not want to die as much as you imagine you did."

D'Artagnan nodded, and Athos could see this wasn't a new idea to him.

"You are young. Whatever you choose to do now, you can change your mind later."

"My father, his father before him, back for more generations than I can number right now, have lived on this land and worked this land. It was my father's dream to make this farm bigger, better, to make something he could pass on to me, to my chil…children…"

The way he stumbled over the word and the look in his eyes as he said it made Athos certain that d'Artagnan had only just realized that any future generations of d'Artagnans that might come along would now never know their fallen patriarch.

D'Artagnan shook his head and moved a hand across his eyes before continuing. "I cannot abandon my father's home…the home he worked all his life to provide for me and my mother. I cannot simply put aside my father's dream."

"No," Athos agreed, thinking of his own father's dreams, his own father's home. "But you can make your own."

D'Artagnan stared at Athos for a moment and gave a short nod. Athos could see he'd given the boy something to think about. It was good enough.

Porthos and Aramis returned then carrying a cake Madame Boucher had insisted they give to d'Artagnan.

"She's doing an awful lot of cooking, d'Artagnan," Porthos grinned. "I'd say she's probably plannin' to fatten you up!"

D'Artagnan nodded. "She worries," he admitted glancing down. Sorrow seemed to cling to him, and, as the trio prepared to leave, each of them tried to lift his spirits. Porthos told jokes. Aramis regaled d'Artagnan with humorous tales of their exploits as Musketeers, and with the odd story or two of how his love life sometimes required him to find odd methods of egress from his ladies' rooms.

Athos said little, but when he saw d'Artagnan on occasion get distracted from the antics of the other two Musketeers by the thoughts in his own head, Athos would do something to ground him to the present. He'd add a word or two to the tale in a tone he usually reserved for giving orders. If he were nearby, he'd place a hand on d'Artagnan's arm or clap him on the back to bring him back to reality. It wasn't subtle, but it worked.

Soon, they were ready to leave, and they each said their goodbyes.

"You're good in a pinch, lad." Porthos told him. "Don't get so distracted by farming that you forget to practice your sword work." He leaned in conspiratorially. "The ladies love that!"

"Ah, and what would you know of a lady's favor, Porthos! That's my area." Aramis said, stepping forward and catching d'Artagnan's hand in both of his. "You have a lovely home, d'Artagnan, but don't forget your friends. Come see us in Paris if you ever have the time. I'll show you around, introduce you to some lovelies of my acquaintance…"

"And get him into trouble!" Porthos added with a laugh.

"Don't pay any attention to him!" Aramis insisted stepping aside to let Athos have his place.

Athos nodded to D'Artragnan and tipped his hat. "Don't forget our offer. If you find yourself in need, we'll expect to be asked to help. We'd take it as an insult if we found out later that we could have helped and were deprived of the opportunity."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I'll remember. Thank you all. I can't tell you how much help you've been, but there's little chance I'll have need to take you up on the offer. Nothing ever happens in Lupiac."

The Musketeers mounted and rode slowly away. Athos could feel d'Artagnan watching them until they were out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews. Sorry this took so long. Working on the next chapter and the wait shouldn't be nearly as bad. Thanks for your patience. Please review.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 4

Reflections and Realizations

For the rest of that first day after the funeral, after the Musketeers had gone, d'Artagnan felt disconnected. He accepted Madame Boucher's company, but, pleading fatigue, he saw her home and returned to his empty house. He had nothing pressing to do, but his desire to keep busy spurred him to do all the things his father would have had to suggest that he do. He chopped wood for hours finding a comfort in the mindless rhythm of the task. It lulled his senses and allowed his body to function at an instinctive level. He didn't think. He just lost himself in the task until his arms felt heavy and he found it impossible to raise the axe.

He took a break after stacking the logs and returned to the house changing out of his sweat stained clothes. He ate a simple meal of bread and cheese, though found he was too tired to eat much.

He fell asleep in the sitting room, waking at the first light of dawn in a state of mild confusion as his tired brain tried to work out why he wasn't in his bed. It came back to him in a rush.

That was one thing he hadn't expected. It was the newness of the grief every time he woke. Waking up and realizing his father was actually dead was like losing him all over again.

He rose reluctantly wincing at the stiffness of muscles strained from too much wood chopping and aggravated by a night sleeping in a chair.

Today, he realized, he would have to focus on the farm. Yes, it was early winter, but there were always things to be done, and he felt a bit of apprehension in the pit of his stomach at the realization that he wasn't entirely certain how things stood with the farm. His father had taught him much about running the place, but d'Artagnan had always been content to do what needed doing and not worry about the details that occupied his father's time.

Alexandre d'Artagnan had encouraged this. To some degree, d'Artagnan suspected that his father held tight to his responsibilities because he truly could not envision slowing down. Whenever d'Artagnan had shown an interest in managerial details, his father had put him off claiming there was time enough for d'Artagnan to worry about that, but that for now, he should enjoy himself while the burden of responsibility still belonged to his father.

So d'Artagnan had practiced his sword work and seen to the more menial, mundane tasks of keeping the farm running. His father had liked his cooking, which Madame Boucher had insisted he learn, so he had tried to master all of his father's favorite dishes. His father had enjoyed seeing him practice with his sword, so d'Artagnan had focused on becoming the best he could possibly be just so he could hear his father's hearty laugh of approval when he managed a particularly elegant series of moves.

Now, there was no one else. Ready or not—and he most assuredly was not—he would have to assume his father's responsibilities.

With a bit of trepidation, he entered his father's study. The sturdy desk—made by d'Artagnan's great-grandfather—seemed intimidating. He hadn't been in the room since his father's death, not by design, but simply because he hadn't given a thought past the funeral and after the funeral, he had simply not been ready to enter.

No more ready now, he knew he could not put this off any longer.

Crossing the room, he threw aside the heavy draperies and, with the weak winter sunlight streaming into the room in a feeble attempt to illuminate him, he began to read through the papers and ledgers. It was hours later, when he found himself leaning towards the window with the pages close to his face that he realized he had to stop if for no other reason that to light the lamps.

He rose, feeling his spine click in a few places as he stretched to relive his too-long inactive muscles. He had the beginnings of a headache, and his stomach felt empty enough to remind him he'd not eaten since he'd finished chopping wood the day before. As he pondered what he'd learned by going through his father's papers, he knew he really couldn't eat. The papers, the ledgers…everything he'd read told him he could lose the farm more easily than he could adjust to maintaining it without his father at his side.

It was no wonder Alexandre d'Artagnan had decided to go the Paris to plead for tax relief. Things were much worse than his father had led him to believe.

There was a distinct chill in the air, so d'Artagnan retreated to his room. With no appetite, aching muscles from both the previous day's wood chopping and sitting at the desk all day, combined with the knowledge that everything he had left in the world could soon be lost to him, d'Artagnan crawled into bed and threw the blankets up over his head. Childish, he knew, but he had little time to ponder the depths of his childishness as he fell into a troubled sleep.

_It was cold. Dark. The air was so cold it was painful to breathe. Straining his eyes, he tried to force them to focus, to see something, but the absence of light was total and unrelenting. He focused his attention on his other senses…a smell of rain, the coppery tinge of blood…the sound of screaming, the feel of water pouring down on him from above. His vision began to clear as his heart began to pound. He turned his head hoping to find something to distract him from what he knew was there, but it was already too late. His father lay there at his feet, wet, bleeding and turning an accusatory stare at him._

_"Where were you, Charles?"_

_" I was…the horses…" He gestured behind him to the stables where the armed men had found him before he fell to his knees and grasped his father's hand. "Father…please…"_

_"We cannot save the farm now. We will lose it. You will lose it all…everything we have worked for…everything my father and his father built!"_

_D'Artagnan frowned thinking how wrong this was. His father hadn't said this when he'd died…but now, his father grasped his hand and looked him in the eye. "You are not a farmer. You cannot hope to keep the farm going…" His eyes rolled up until d'Artagnan could see only the whites._

_"Father!" d'Artagnan called, watching in horror as his father breathed his last._

D'Artagnan sat up straight in bed crying out as he woke. "Father!" he called, gasping as he slowly came to the understanding that he'd been dreaming. He put a hand to his pounding head and wiped away the sweat that had dampened his hair. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. It was hours before he slept again.

**The Musketeers**

D'Artagnan spent the next few days either brooding over an untouched plate of food or poring over the ledgers and journals his father had left behind. He grew more concerned with each passing day until he finally recognized that he'd passed right through worry and into panic.

The last time the taxes had been collected, they had managed to pay just under half what they owed the crown. That, added to what they—he—would owe when the tax collector was due to come again, was more than the farm had been able to earn in the last 5 years combined. When, how, had they fallen so far behind on the taxes? He'd found vaguely worded entries in the accounts that grew larger each season. What were they? Why had his father not told him of any of this?

Carefully, he combed through the accounts. He made list after list of the farm's assets. He would sell his father's horse. He would sell his tack, the bedroom set, one of the cows, and…his mother's jewelry. He could sell some of that. There must be something. Gripped by the thought he raced to his father's room. Pausing in the doorway, he realized he hadn't entered the room since the day he'd chosen his father's burial attire. Now he felt like a bandit, come to his own father's room to ransack it for his mother's jewelry or anything else his might be able to sell. He reminded himself it was to save the farm, and he walked inside.

The curtains were shut, so he threw them open. He'd found that, since his father's passing, he hated dark rooms. It was too oppressive. He could too easily lose himself in dark memories. He much preferred natural light. With the curtains open as far as they could be, he retrieved his mother's jewelry case and the box his father used to keep his own precious things.

There was very little. He remembered what he saw, but he felt there were items missing. He was sure his mother had owned a small, delicate brooch, but he could find no trace of it. He was also certain there had been a ring, too long out of style to wear, but one his mother had kept because it had belonged to her grandmother. It was nowhere to be seen.

His father's box was in a similar state. What was left was either not worth much, or was of such great sentimental value, he'd never dare to sell it. He saw it then…the pocket watch had belonged to his grandfather. His father's father had allowed himself the one extravagance though he had only kept it at the urging of his wife. He had, according to Alexandre d'Artagnan, threatened to sell it many times over, but Alexandre's mother forbade it.

His father had only worn it in the house or on special occasions. It was not the sort of watch one wore when farming. D'Artagnan held it in his hand reverently. His father must have maintained it well all these years. He clutched it for a moment unsure if the idea of selling it had made him dizzy or if it could be something else. Lack of sleep, nightmares…

He shook off the thought and carefully placed the watch back in the box. He knew he'd likely have to sell it to save the farm, but for now, he was overcome with a need to know how things had gotten so bad.

Determination flooded threw him and he put away his parents things and returned to his own room. A trip to the tavern was in order. He'd find his father's friends, talk to them and try to work out what had happened.

**The Musketeers**

The smell of wine, spirits, and rabbit stew wafted through the tavern. Voices of half a dozen people melded together into an indecipherable babble, and d'Artagnan felt suddenly self-conscious about having come. For a moment, he considered leaving before anyone saw him, but the moment passed before he could decide anything.

"Charles!" The barman called out to him. "Come, have a drink on the house!"

He should have remembered. Michel always treated people to drinks whenever some life-changing event occurred. Whether it was birth, death, marriage…Michel would not allow it to pass without marking the occasion.

He accepted only because it was the easiest thing to do in the circumstances, and because if he wanted to learn anything, Michel was the man to ask.

He sat at a stool far remove from where he usually sat with his father. It would be too hard to fight the urge to turn and say something to him. He'd found himself doing that at home, and feeling the loss all over again each time he realized anew that his father was gone.

Michel poured a glass of his best wine. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, and Michel shrugged as he poured another for himself. He raised the glass and offered a toast. "To Alexandre d'Artagnan. Lupiac is a better place for having had him live here so long."

D'Artagnan clinked glasses with Michel and they both drank. The toast was not the usual one the barman offered in such circumstances, but before he could find a way to ask about it, Michel set down his glass and leaned closer to d'Artagnan. "Your father was the best man I've ever met. Did you know he loaned me the money to open this inn?"

D'Artagnan shook his head in surprise. His father was always against the idea of borrowing or lending. "No," he admitted.

"You were a little thing then. The man who ran the inn in those days had died, and there was a lot of speculation that it would remain shut. I had always fancied the idea of running a place like this. Your father was a friend of my uncle's. They talked one day, and the next day Alexandre d'Artagnan knocked on my door. 'Here's what you need. No town should be without an inn to celebrate, to mourn, and to share the good times and bad.' He didn't ask for anything in return, but I paid him back in full. Then, every month I've been open, I managed to buy him a drink."

D'Artagnan smiled. "That's what that was all about? Every time we came in he would tell me, 'don't let Michel buy me a drink.' I never knew how that started." D'Artagnan shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. He had wondered why Michel had gotten in the habit of buying his father a drink, but his father refused to talk about it. He looked at Michel. "He always said you only did it because it irritated him."

Michel laughed. "He knew exactly why. Gratitude was hard for him to accept, but I will always feel that when I think of him. He was a good man."

They both fell silent for a moment or two as their thoughts conjured memories of Alexandre d'Artagnan, and for a brief time, d'Artagnan didn't feel quite so alone in his grief. He cleared his throat and dashed a hand across his eyes. Raising his glass once more, d'Artagnan drained it dry.

Composed, he looked Michel in the eye. "Michel, I've been wondering…before we left for Paris, my father told me he'd spoken to most of our friends and neighbors and everyone agreed speaking to the King about the taxes was the only thing left to be done. Did he speak to you?"

Michel sighed heavily and picked up a rag as though to start polishing the bar. He held it in his hands for a few moments before dropping it once more. He looked at d'Artagnan with apprehension. "Yes," he admitted. "We spoke. He believed there wasn't much else we could do. The taxes are draining away most of the ready cash in Lupiac. No one can afford to pay it anymore."

"How is it my father and I were chosen to go?"

"Your father insisted. He said he had information that would force the King to listen to him."

D'Artagnan drew back in surprise. " 'Force the King'…he said that?"

Michel nodded. "He had lost more than any of us. He'd helped so many of us keep our property…"

"How? What do you mean?"

Michel toyed with the rag again, looking away, but turned his attention back to d'Artagnan. "Maybe you had best talk to Monsieur Tremblay."

"Tremblay…" d'Artagnan didn't really want to speak to him. The man hadn't been the least apologetic after repeatedly dropping the coffin at the funeral. He had hoped to let a few months pass before needing to speak to the man. He studied Michel's face, but could find no hint of what the man thought he would learn from Tremblay. Determination roared through him suddenly, and he knew he would have to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. "Very well. I'll speak to him…but surely there's something you can tell me."

Michel's eyes softened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Just as he was about to say something, the door to the tavern swung open and a large man walked in. D'Artagnan didn't know him well. He hadn't been in Lupiac long, but Michel immediately shut his mouth and his face was suddenly hard and stony.

"Would you like another?" He asked d'Artagnan, his hand hovering over the bottle on the bar.

D'Artagnan was no fool, and it would take a special kind of fool not to notice the change in the atmosphere. He shook his head holding up a hand as he reached for what was left of his drink.

The newcomer crossed to the bar glaring at Michel. "Whiskey," he said.

Michel nodded and poured.

D'Artagnan watched the two. Saw how Michel never met the other man's eyes, poured a shockingly generous portion of whiskey, and left the bottle in easy reach. He watched the man sit with all the authority of any King or Lord as though this was his due.

"Thank you for the drink, Michel." He stood and left the bar. He'd need to speak to Tremblay today.

He found the man in question at his own farm on the opposite side of the town center from d'Artagnan's. He knocked on the man's door feeling like a young child sent to ask a favor. Cursing himself, he shook the feeling as best he could and waited.

Tremblay opened the door, his face souring when he saw who was waiting. D'Artagnan noted it, but didn't comment.

"Monsieur, how are you? I wanted to thank you…" he heard himself thanking the man for his help carrying the coffin, and cringed at the very idea. A small part of him would have preferred never to see the family friend again in his life. "…May I come in? I have some business to discuss."

"You and I have no business."

D'Artagnan was surprised once more. This man had been a close friend. Why was he so hostile now? "Please, Monsieur. I found your name in my father's records…he paid you some money…" Before d'Artagnan could inquire as to the nature of the payment, Tremblay all but snarled at him.

"I should have guessed it would not take you long to call in the debt! Well, I haven't got it. I cannot give it back to you!" A harsh laugh echoed his words. "If your father were here, I could not pay him…"

D'Artagnan held up a hand. "Monsieur, I have no intention of asking for the money. If he gave it to you, please, consider it a gift. I meant only to ask why he paid you. What was the money for? Judging by his records, he paid out a lot of money to a lot of people. Why? What has he not told me?"

D'Artagnan hated the desperation that tinged his words, but he was having trouble coping with the changes that he been through, and learning that his father, whom he thought he knew better than any living soul, had secrets made him wonder what else about his life was not entirely as he'd always believed it to be.

Monsieur Tremblay's eyes seemed uncertain for a moment, but then his expression softened and he seemed almost the man d'Artagnan remembered.

"You really don't know, do you?" He shook his head. "Ah, Alexandre," he whispered to himself. Then he put out a hand and clasped d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Come inside. We have much to discuss."

They sat in Monsieur Tremblay's living room. He'd poured some wine and stoked the fire. D'Artagnan could tell that he was stalling, but he didn't want to rush him. He had seemed so distant, so angry recently. That had come to a head at the funeral, and d'Artagnan had presumed he was the cause. He'd assumed Monsieur Tremblay blamed him for his father's death. They had been, after all, best friends in their youth. Now, he sensed there was more that he didn't know.

Finally the man sat. He reached for his wine and downed a sizable portion before looking d'Artagnan in the eye. "Your father knew that we were dying. Lupiac, I mean. There is only so much a town this size may give away before crumbling to dust. The taxes were a heavy burden and so many of us could not cope." He looked away, but looked back almost immediately. "I, too, could not see to my obligations. Your father paid my taxes last season. The season before, he paid Madame Boucher's. Half the people of Lupiac have borrowed something from him in recent years, but the taxes only increased. When Lemieux turned up with news of the latest increase, he set up a payment schedule claiming the crown understood it was a lot to ask at any one time. He collected payments and marked it in a ledger. Your father helped most of us pay. His own funds were running out when he proposed the trip to Paris. He claimed he knew things and that he had learned of some sort of treachery. He said it would be safer not to tell us details. He would discuss it with the King. I told him he was being foolish. Surely, the King would not agree to meet with a farmer from Lupiac. He would not be persuaded to abandon his plan."

D'Artagnan stared in open-mouthed shock at his father's friend. "Why would he keep this from me?"

Tremblay shrugged. "I suppose he hoped to handle it himself. You know, whenever we talked about you, he always mentioned…"

"My temper…" d'Artagnan whispered. He'd heard a lot about his temper from his neighbors over the last week or more. In retrospect, he'd heard a lot about it most of his life. He could only imagine the grief and trouble he'd caused his father, and how disappointed he must have been. When Monsieur Tremblay did not continue, d'Artagnan hazarded a look. To his surprise, Monsieur Tremblay was shaking his head sadly, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"Oh, Charles, no. He always mentioned your idealism. He worried that one day you would lose it and that the loss would make you bitter. He said your temper was his fault. He said he fanned the flames with stories of chivalry and honor, and that you were offended when others…" he smiled a sad smile and shrugged before continuing. "Well, when they did not behave as honorably as you believed they should."

"I…" d'Artagnan had to clear his throat to continue. "I have worried that I must have been a disappointment to him." The confession cost him and he looked down once more unable to look the man in the eye and see his agreement.

Monsieur Tremblay rose and from his chair and moved to sit beside d'Artagnan on the small settee. "You," he said with a smile, "were his pride and joy, but the loss of your idealism, your innocence…the extent of your pride…these are the things that worried him, Charles. You were everything to him. He sought to protect you. He said he had to go to Paris or there would be nothing to leave to you…the d'Artagnan family legacy would end with him. It was something he could not bear…the thought of leaving you homeless and in debt. He claimed he would take you to Paris and, if he failed to speak to the King, he would secure a position for you somewhere."

D'Artagnan's head snapped up at that. "A position with whom? Doing what? Surely, he didn't mean that! I would have helped with the farm! Perhaps together we might have found a way to save it!"

Tremblay waved his hands. "No, he said if he failed there would be no more farm anyway, and he would not have you throw your chances away."

"Chances?" D'Artagnan rose and paced back and forth. Consternation and confusion raced through him. "Chances at what? What could he have intended? I have no prospects in Paris!"

Tremblay shrugged. "He never said, but…" there was a tone of amusement in his voice. "It seems you made connections of your own. There were Musketeers in town for his funeral. Surely they were here for your benefit. You could do worse than to gain a commission with the King's Guard."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "A commission? With the Musketeers?"

"Not so far-fetched, I think," he said with a smile.

**The Musketeers**

D'Artagnan began to spend more and more time alone in his father's study. When Madame Boucher stopped in every few days, he found he could not easily speak to her. His heart was too heavy for either idle chatter or detailed explanations of what troubled him. He had realized soon after Monsieur Tremblay's explanations that the missing items from his parents' room had been sold to pay the taxes not only on their farm but also for his friends and neighbors. His father had been loyal to those he admired and befriended, and he was unable to turn down any request for help.

D'Artagnan could not find fault with this. He only wished his father had shared the burden with him. Together they could have found some answers, he was sure. Tremblay knew nothing of whatever evidence of treachery his father might have found that might have aided Lupiac. In his father's absence, he had been unable to find a single clue that would help him reconstruct either his father's thought processes or rediscover any such evidence.

Madame Boucher worried. He knew she did, but he could find no words of reassurance while he was faced with losing what little he had left. He had little recourse. He had to go through the motions of working the farm until he learned something or indeed lost it altogether. It being winter, there was little he could do, however.

The cold seemed colder this year, and D'Artagnan sometimes caught himself wishing winter were gone. At this time of year, there was less to do around the farm than he would have liked. He found himself cleaning the house just to keep busy. He mucked out the stables more frequently than was strictly necessary. He even took to chopping wood for hours at a time just to feel the burn of his muscles as he did it.

By the end of end of the third week after his father's funeral, he had the cleanest house and stables, and the most firewood of any home in Gascony. He rose one morning and decided that he should take a wander through the farmland and inspect it. Compiling a list of projects, tasks, and repairs was how his father always used the winter months, and he saw the logic in it.

Winter had barely started, he knew, but he intended to do a lot of planning before the spring thaw. He had his father's notes to review, and he planned to be as meticulous as possible. He would not let his father down.

He left early one morning when the first suggestion of pink and yellow was beginning to paint the distant horizon. He'd dressed warmly and had packed a bit of wine and some food in case it took him longer than usual to do the task. He found that everything seemed to take him longer than usual these days. He didn't tell himself it was his grief making him slower. He was doing his best to avoid thinking about grief.

By mid-morning, he'd covered a good bit of the land and was pleased to see that, aside from a few fallen trees that needed to be cleared from where they had fallen in a storm, there was little damage to the farm. Winter was a long way from over, but the farm wasn't in a bad state.

His final stop was the eastern most part of his land. He approached the fence dividing his own property from Monsieur Lambert's and felt rage surge through his body at the sight that greeted him. The fence was crooked. It wasn't wind or snow that caused this. Monsieur Lambert was still there, slumped over one post and again moving the fence piece by piece as he'd tried to do last year. No doubt he imagined that d'Artagnan's grief would make him oblivious to the trick, and in truth it might have worked had he not rode up as Lambert was in the middle of the task.

"Lambert!" he called as he leaped from his horse. "What do you think you're doing?"

He made his way to the post. Lambert, infuriatingly, remained as he was. D'Artagnan imagined the ground must be hard, still frozen as it was, and he was forced to struggle to pull it up.

D'Artagnan approached and called again. "Do you hear me? I'm talking to you!" He put a hand on Lambert's arm and watched as he tumbled to the ground with a knife through his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I hope to have another chapter up soon.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 5

Pathos and Prayers

The first of February was a sunny but cold day in Paris, and Athos strolled toward the Musketeer Garrison without noticing the cold, the people he passed, or indeed without any realization that February had actually arrived. His head was pounding from his usual evening activities, and, though Porthos and Aramis—it had taken both of them this time—had seen him home, he found he had little memory beyond arriving at his room.

As he entered the Garrison, Porthos and Aramis were already sparring, as were other pairs of Musketeers. Athos sat and watched his two closest friends trying to see if either were showing any particular weakness in their fighting styles that morning. As usual, there was no real room for improvement. If there were to be a loser, it would be luck that would decide who it would be.

He took a seat on the stairs prepared to wait until one of them lost when a boy of about twelve, mounted on a horse that had obviously been ridden hard, came racing through the courtyard. At the sight of the boy, the hair on the back of Athos's neck stood up. He watched the boy carefully, all thoughts of sparring with Porthos or Aramis gone.

The boy stopped by the doorway where the stable boy was clearing up some equipment and asked a question with a frantic look on his face. The stable boy turned and pointed at Athos, his face showing surprise that the Musketeer was staring at him so intently. The new arrival dismounted and dashed to Athos's side.

"Monsieur Athos? The Musketeer?"

"What is it, boy?" Athos asked. By this time Aramis and Porthos had abandoned their match and come to see what was happening.

"For you." He wearily thrust a letter at Athos.

Porthos called for someone to bring the boy water. He turned to Athos.

"Well?"

When Athos didn't reply, Aramis tried his luck. "Athos?"

Athos thrust the letter at him. "I am going to speak to Treville. We ride for Lupiac in five minutes."

"What is it?" Porthos asked, but Athos didn't reply.

Aramis and Porthos watched him climb the stairs. Aramis turned to the letter and read it carefully. Porthos watched in concern as his face paled. "I'm getting tired of askin'. What is it?"

"D'Artagnan is calling in his favor."

"What does it say?"

Aramis couldn't read it aloud, so, with a shake of his head, he gave the letter to Porthos.

_Athos, Aramis, Porthos, _

_Please come. I'm to be hanged. _

_ d'Artagnan_

Porthos and Aramis raced to the stables to prepare their horses.

**The Musketeers**

They rode with haste. This was no leisurely jaunt to the countryside and the speed with which their horses tore up the ground meant they'd be utterly spent when they arrived, but none of them entertained any thought of slowing down.

They'd ridden for close to ten hours before grudgingly halting. Eating and drinking may be done from the saddle, but some bodily needs were best seen to on solid ground and not from the back of a horse.

Once stopped, the soldiers in each of them forced them to care for their horses. The poor beasts had been pushed beyond limits, and though their hearts cried out for them to press on, the animals required rest, food, and water.

Athos stared at the horses after they'd been made comfortable, but his eyes did not see them. His thoughts rested on what might be happening in Lupiac. The note from d'Artagnan had been short on detail, and though he'd memorized it, he still puzzled over what had not been included. It had been a few short months since they had left their young friend, and Athos had fully expected to see the lad stroll into the garrison on any given day requesting a chance to join their ranks. Each day that did not happen, Athos mood darkened.

Now, he pulled the brief missive from his pocket and read it through again.

"It won't say any more now that it did the first time." Porthos appeared at his side having failed to rouse Athos's attention before speaking. Athos could not be said to be startled. Instead he shook his head, the letter crinkling slightly in his tightening grip. "I don't understand why he didn't write more."

Porthos shrugged, and Athos wondered not for the first time at the ease with which he accepted such things. Porthos took what was given and rarely looked for more. He seemed to expect that he would learn more in due time or, if he didn't, he would have to accept the lack regardless so why not just accept it at the start. Athos suspected this was because of his upbringing. Living in the Court of Miracles didn't exactly leave him in a position to expect much of anything.

"Maybe 'e couldn't write more." Porthos said, his eyes taking on a thoughtful gaze. "Maybe 'e was bein' watched, or maybe 'e was short on time."

Athos nodded. He'd considered this. It didn't make him feel any better about the lack of information. If anything, it made him more apprehensive of what they would find.

They didn't linger, but moved on again as soon as they believed the horses were able to continue. In this fashion, they made the journey in eight days when it should have taken ten.

They rode straight to d'Artagnan's farm, unsure what they would find there. Dismounting, they were greeted by Madame Boucher who came running out to them at the sound of the horses.

"Monsieurs! Oh, Musketeers!" She cast her eyes heavenward and her hands, clutching a well-worn rosary, were clasped as though still in prayer. "Thank you, Lord! Thank you!" She grasped Athos's arm as he came running to her side. "Monsieur Athos! Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Aramis! He said you would all come. I have waited for you since we sent the letter! They hang him tomorrow! You must help him!"

"Madame, take a breath!" Athos turned the woman toward the house and they followed her inside.

Aramis helped the lady to a chair and knelt by her side. He looked her in the eyes. His hands rested on her arms in an attempt to keep her from losing herself. "We find ourselves with a lack of information. First, where is d'Artagnan?"

"He's being held at the town center. The town guards have him. They hang him at dawn!" She was practically screeching.

"Why is it always dawn?" Athos said softly.

Porthos poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. "Please, Madame. We're here to help. Why are they hanging 'im?"

"Murder! Monsieur Lambert was killed. D'Artagnan was discovered over the body in the fields. There was an issue with the fence. He didn't do it…I promise you…"

"Hush, Madame," Aramis whispered. "We're quite as certain as you are that he didn't do it. We will clear his name." Aramis looked up at Porthos and Athos.

"We should speak to the men at whose mercy he finds himself," Aramis whispered.

Their own horses spent, they cared for the loyal beasts and put them up in d'Artagan's barn. He only had two horses of his own, so they hitched them to the wagon and rode to the town center in that.

Aramis had managed to pull more information from Madame Boucher. They knew where exactly d'Artagnan was being held, and truth be told, Aramis considered it a distinct possibility that they might have to stage a prison break. These small towns never liked outsiders interfering with their business. He worried there would be little sympathy to their cause if these people honestly believed they had their culprit. He shook his head in consternation. He had known d'Artagnan for only a short time and yet he was certain murder was beyond the man's ability. Killing in a fair fight, in a battle, certainly, but cold-blooded murder wasn't something of which the honorable, enthusiastic, passionate boy could conceive.

"This is a small town," he whispered.

"What?" Porthos asked.

"It's a small town. They all know each other, move in and out of each other's lives, likely they have done for decades."

"Your point?" Athos asked.

"We've known d'Artagnan for what? A matter of days? Yet we're all certain he couldn't have committed murder. They've known him his entire life. How could they think this of him?" Aramis shook his head again.

Porthos scoffed. "Number of years you know someone don't always mean much. I've known some people all my life and nothing I'd learn about them would surprise me."

"And if you'd known d'Artagnan all your life? How would that affect your assessment of his character?" Aramis asked.

Porthos opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as he really considered the question. "Funny, but I feel like I've known him longer." He shrugged. "I'd never believe he could murder someone, but some people enjoy the gossip…the good story. It's a tragic one…hometown boy loses his father on a trip to the city, comes home and in a fit of rage and grief murders a man he and his father have had words with in the past. The story will run through the town like wildfire."

"But they _know_ him!" Aramis insisted.

"Perhaps they know only what they wish to know." Athos interrupted and would say no more.

**The Musketeers**

The Musketeers had decided it best to arrive with all the pomp they could conjure. Though they couldn't arrive on horseback, they had changed into fresh clothes, before departing the farm, brightened and brushed out their hats and capes, and in short looked as they might for any formal job at the palace.

Athos had reasoned that they had made an impression at Alexandre d'Artagnan's funeral. These people were not accustomed to the sight of Musketeers, let alone Musketeers dressed as well as possible. They needed every advantage.

They left the wagon by the town hall, and entered as regally as possible. Yet they maintained a casual air. Athos insisted that a man who seemed unaware that he was impressive was ten times more inspiring than a man who knew he was.

Athos swept into the room, Aramis and Porthos just behind him. "You there!" Athos called to the first person they saw. Athos looked the man up and down, doing his best at appearing to assess and dismiss the man as unimportant. "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers. I want to speak to your superior."

The man was overwhelmed by the trio of Musketeers and raced from the room without saying a thing. A moment or two later, a large man entered. He was dressed in black and he had a glint in his eye that Athos did not like.

"What business do the King's Musketeers have here?" The man asked not bothering to introduce himself.

"We are here to see Charles d'Artagnan."

The man grinned, but it was more of a grimace. "Good thing you came today. He'll be dead by this time tomorrow."

Athos's eyes narrowed. "A lot can happen before dawn tomorrow. Where is he?"

"What interest do you have in him?"

"That isn't your concern. Where is he?" Athos said. He stepped forward slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Aramis and Porthos did the same.

"He's in there." The man looked over the trio, and Athos could see a hint of fear at the idea of taking on three of the King's Musketeers at once. It was gone in an instant and a haughty disregard for the situation took its place. It had been the briefest of glimpses, but Athos, long accustomed to reading an opponent's body language knew they would get what they wanted.

The man gestured through the door he'd just come from. "You can see him." He smiled again, but it was not a smile of friendship or hospitality. It was more an evil thing. "You can say goodbye."

Athos didn't reply. They walked to the door and straight through it where they found a narrow corridor with three doors. The man that had run off when they'd first arrived guarded the one furthest down the hall.

The Musketeers moved swiftly toward that door. Now that they were moments from seeing d'Artagnan, Athos felt more apprehension than he'd imagined he would.

Athos held out his hand for the key and the guard gave it to him before scurrying away. Athos used the key and threw open the door. The interior of the room was dark. One small window high in the wall let in a little light, but bars across it made it clear this was no guest room. There was a small fire in a fireplace clearly not large enough to heat the room properly, and certainly not large enough to illuminate the interior. This was by design. The fireplace was too small for the average man to try to escape by that route, and the top would, Athos knew, have bars just as the window did.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called out quietly. He was puzzled. He didn't see d'Artagnan, and began to wonder if perhaps they'd been misled. It was in that moment that a dark shape in the far corner of the room moved.

Athos glanced to the side of the doorway and saw a torch, unlit in a wall sconce. Carefully, he removed it and pushed an end into the fire. When it lit, he returned it to it's place on the wall. Stepping further inside the room to allow Porthos and Aramis entry, his eyes finally found his friend.

"Oh, d'Artagnan," his voice was a whisper, and he realized he had not expected d'Artagnan to look much differently than he had the last time they'd seen him. This was, after all, merely a holding cell in Lupiac, not the Chatelet.

Aramis hissed at the sight, and Porthos cursed.

"D'Artagnan. We came as soon as we got your letter," Athos moved closer to the boy who was squinting against the feeble light of the torch and holding a hand protectively before his face. It was then that Athos saw the chains.

His eyes scanned his friend as he moved closer. The boy wore no shoes on his feet, his clothes were tattered and filthy, and his wrists beneath the manacles were rubbed raw.

"What has happened? D'Artagnan, tell us everything and leave out not a solitary detail." Athos moved to sit by d'Artagnan, but the boy flinched away from him and covered his head as though expecting to be hit.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted the name in his surprise. To find the proud, passionate young man who'd demanded a fight to the death the moment they'd met to be cowering on the floor like an abused dog told him things about the boy's treatment that he didn't care to contemplate.

Something in Athos's voice must have gotten through to him, for d'Artagnan looked cautiously up at Athos, his eyes squinting a bit more. "A…Athos?" he asked. He turned to Aramis. "Aramis…" A glance up at Porthos, and a smile actually lit his features. "Porthos!"

Porthos smiled, though it did little to hide his fear and concern for the younger man. Aramis put a hand on the large Musketeer's arm and Athos knew he was trying both to comfort and to be comforted.

There was a small bed and he perched on it bringing d'Artagnan up from the floor to sit beside him, and with Athos by his side and Aramis kneeling before him to examine him for injury, d'Artagnan seemed ever so slightly more himself. Porthos was forced to sit on the floor between Aramis and the wall not willing to be too far from their young friend.

"What has happened? D'Artagnan, please, tell us everything."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and explained what he could. He told them how he'd found Lambert's body. He hadn't realized the man was dead and thought he'd been moving fence posts once more. He shrugged. "If he didn't, someone else did, because the posts were moved." He frowned as though doubting himself. "They were…I'm sure they were…" He spoke softly and belying his words, he sounded anything but sure. He'd shouted at the man, and only then realized what had happened. While he'd puzzled over it, Lambert's sons had arrived and began accusing him of murdering their father. They'd dragged him to town and presented their complaint.

"I had no proof that I had not done it, and they insisted they'd seen the attack from the distance and ridden in haste to intervene only to arrive too late." He looked them in the eyes, each Musketeer in turn. "I didn't do it! I swear…"

"Peace, d'Artagnan," Aramis said. "We know you didn't. You're too honorable a man to have done anything of the sort."

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise. Eyes, now accustomed to the light, widened. "You…you believe me?"

"Of course, why wouldn't we?" Porthos asked.

"No one does…I mean…only Madame Boucher. The others…the men who have worked for us…for my father for years…the people I've known since I was a child…everyone believes I've done this. Do you know what it's like to have no one to believe in you?" His soft, broken whisper tore at Athos's heart and he clasped the lad's hand firmly in his own.

"We believe you." Athos voice was strong and did not break and he willed the boy to believe his words. "The three of us. The King's Musketeers. The Three Inseparables. Hold onto that, lad. We have come as we promised and we will help."

D'Artagnan looked up at Athos. "I didn't call you to save me."

"You didn't?" Athos glanced to Porthos and Aramis who could only shrug.

"No…I…my hanging. I only thought…I mean…I didn't want to die alone."

"Die?" Porthos spat onto the floor after saying the word as though the taste of it were something he intended to forget. "You're not going to die, lad."

"Quite right," Aramis agreed. "We've got until dawn. We're getting good at this saving people from execution thing."

"Listen to them, d'Artagnan. We have no intention of watching you die. We have every intention of proving to these people that you are a man of honor and could never have done as they suggest."

"It's no suggestion." D'Artagnan said. "They believe it. They relish it. They retell the story at every opportunity." Bitterness was boiling up to the surface now, and d'Artagnan couldn't stop it. "The story of Charles d'Artagnan, so driven mad by his grief, so overwhelmed by anger that without his father there to force civility down his throat, he killed the first man with whom he disagreed." He scrubbed his eyes with his chained hands. Weariness enveloped him and he trembled with the effort of so long a conversation.

"How long have you been chained here?" Athos asked. He could see things in d'Artagnan that he would have preferred not to see. There was bitterness in the boy, now. Bitterness, pain, and a hint of panic. He was familiar with the feelings. He'd struggled against them in the Chatelet the night he'd spent there, believing he'd die at dawn.

D'Artagnan's only reply was a half-hearted shrug.

"How long?" Athos insisted.

"I'm…not really sure." He admitted. "What day is it?"

Athos glanced at Aramis and Porthos. He cleared his throat and looked d'Artagnan in the eye. "It's early February."

D'Artagnan blinked. Once. Twice. "I…" He had to stop to clear his throat. "It was late December when I discovered the body. They arrested me immediately. I…tried to escape a few days later. I wanted to be able to investigate. There was little I could do locked up in here."

"Why did you delay in contacting us?" Athos asked, letting a bit of his irritation at the wasted time show. "I thought we'd made it clear when last we were here that we would come to help regardless of the circumstances."

D'Artagnan sighed in frustration. "I thought of it, of course. I asked for the paper to write a letter, but they put me off. Madame Boucher came last week. She had demanded to see me for weeks, but they only permitted it when it was decided I'd hang. She brought paper and promised to send a letter for me."

They were all silent for a moment. Athos felt anger at this unfair treatment, and worry that d'Artagnan had so casually mentioned his hanging as though it were a natural thing, a normal thing that would happen as surely as a sunrise...the next sunrise. The boy was being framed, and the only favor he'd requested of them was not to die alone. Athos wondered at the depth of his desire to protect d'Artagnan, but he shook off the thought as irrelevant. Something to be explored later when they'd saved the boy, or to add to the things he drowned each night in wine.

"Is this the way people are normally treated in Lupiac prisons?" Aramis asked.

Again, d'Artagnan shrugged. "I don't really know. There's not a lot of crime here. Nothing in the town much impacted the farmers on the outskirts." His eyes were haunted, and his hands trembled. "This is the first murder…" He shook his head, and his focus drifted. He stared down at the floor so long that Athos suspected he'd forgotten they were there.

"Look at me, d'Artagnan," Athos said. The seriousness of his tone drew not only the lad's eyes, but Porthos's and Aramis's as well. "We will get you out of this. You will not hang tomorrow." He paused for a moment. "Do you believe me?"

D'Artagnan struggled to say it. That he wanted to was obvious, but he'd been alone in a cell for a month. Isolated from all that was familiar to him at a time when grief was his only companion. After all that time alone, trust couldn't be an easy thing to give away.

"Yes," d'Artagnan finally admitted. "Yes, I do."

"Good man," Athos said with a hint of a smile. "Aramis?"

Aramis knew what he was being asked. "He's bruised and battered and I'm worried about his wrists. He has lost weight, though, and he had little enough of that to spare."

"A problem for tomorrow. We've got to discover who has framed the young man." Athos said.

Porthos snorted. "That's obvious. It's Lambert's sons."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Athos admitted.

"Do they have motive?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I suppose so. They own their father's farm now. If I die with no heirs, the town will get the farm. I suppose they could buy it."

Athos shook his head. Something about that sounded wrong.

"So…we talk to them?" Porthos asked.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan. "Is there anything you can tell us about them?"

"There are three of them. They never liked farming. They'd like nothing more than to be too rich to have to work. The oldest has only recently returned home. He left years ago. His brothers always said he'd gone to seek his fortune and would return rich." He was trying to think of something else, but was clearly at a loss. "I don't know them well."

"We will begin there," Athos stood.

"Courage, d'Artagnan," Aramis said before he stepped out of the door.

"Keep the faith," Porthos whispered before following.

Athos put his hands on the younger man's shoulders. "Whatever we discover, _whatever_ we have to do, I swear to you, you will not hang." He held d'Artagnan's eyes a moment, and when he saw the boy believed him as well as he could be expected to while chained to a cell wall awaiting the hangman's noose, he stood, walked to the door, tipped his hat and was gone.

Athos strode through the corridor and back to the office. Spotting the man who'd told them to say goodbye, he aimed a look at the man that had set hardened soldiers quivering in their boots. "His treatment is unforgivable."

The man shrugged. "It's hardly important. He dies at dawn." He gestured to two men, even larger than he was, who stood by the door. He said nothing to them, but the men had their hands on the hilts of their swords and seemed to want nothing more than to fight.

Athos looked back at the first man, refusing to be baited. "It is important to me. Therefore, it will be important to you."

He turned and walked from the building, Aramis and Porthos close behind.

**The Musketeers**

D'Artagnan had to admit to feeling a modicum of hope that he hadn't felt before. He'd almost resigned himself to death. He'd almost made himself believe it was inevitable. His father's death, the way that everyone in the town seemed to want to believe that he was a murderer, it seemed so easy to give up when there was no one on his side.

The Musketeers had come as they'd promised, and, while d'Artagnan had meant it as a last wish, a sort of dying plea not to be alone as life was taken from him, now he realized they would never have been able to do that. It wasn't in these men to stand back and watch a man die—an innocent man—if they knew they could save him. He couldn't go so far as to consider himself a friend to them. After what he'd done, accusing Athos of murder, he thought it unlikely they would ever put that far enough behind them as to include him in their little family. In his experience, people didn't forgive that readily.

Watching them, having ridden along with two of them in a desperate bid to free the third, he'd grown envious of what they had. Perhaps in the early days of his father's death, it was inevitable that he'd long for that sort of connection.

Now he could only hope that the trio could help him. If he could live past tomorrow, he could return to his farm in time for the planting. He'd have to do most of the hard work. He couldn't afford to hire many men. Perhaps not any at all. He'd have to review the ledgers again. His father's accounts were always in meticulous order. He felt a surge of guilt. He'd not done much to keep things going. Granted, he'd been imprisoned for a month, but there'd been time before that to have reviewed things, decide what was needed to keep things running now that his father…

And with that thought, his nascent hope was crushed. His father was dead. His mother was long dead. Madame Boucher was the only person in town who believed he was not a murderer. What could Athos, Porthos, and Aramis do in the scant hours before dawn?

As he watched the sun slip away, and darkness descend on the tiny cell, he realized this would be his last night. He would die at dawn. Regardless of what Athos had said, if they found nothing, he would hang. The Musketeers could hardly break him out of prison. There was nowhere he could go if they did that, and nowhere they could go. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that they would give up their lives, their commissions simply to free a farmboy from Lupiac.

"Father," he whispered, eyes heavenward, "help me." He could have been speaking to Alexandre d'Artagnan. He might have been speaking to the Lord, but in the end he was merely speaking aloud, shivering in a cold cell, chained to a wall and waiting to die.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: I'd hoped to get this up quickly, but never imagined it would be the same day. I'm hard at work on Alexandre's secret and of course the fate of d'Artagnan.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 6

Plots and Schemes

Athos, Aramis, and Porthos rode to the Lambert farm. Athos was quiet as Aramis and Porthos discussed the case against the boy, but could think of no recourse. If the Lamberts yielded no further information, what else could they do?

Aramis turned an appraising eye on Athos. "You've nothing to add?"

Athos didn't reply.

Porthos sighed. "Out with it."

When Athos refused to speak, Aramis brought his horse around to block his path. "You're brooding again, old friend, and without a bottle of wine or a tavern in sight. What's set you off now?"

Athos glared, but cleared his throat and confessed the road his thoughts had traveled. "Did you see him? He flinched away from me. He was expecting to be hit."

Aramis nodded. "They haven't been kind."

"Kind!" Athos seethed. "That boy was stiff-necked, opinionated, prideful and confident when last we saw him. Now, he's cowering in a filthy corner expecting to be hit…and not trying to defend himself!"

"It's what happens when you've been treated bad." Porthos insisted. "Eventually, you expect it. You're sure of it, and you want to minimize the damage. I've seen it before."

Athos turned to Porthos. "We cannot simply accept this! That boy was full of promise. Now…"

"Now, he's to be hung at dawn. That's less than half a day from now. We can restore him once we've saved him." Aramis waited for Porthos and Athos to acknowledge him before again attempting to devise a plan to do just that. He could think of little except to get the Lamberts to admit to their deception.

"Getting them to admit to murder ain't goin' to be easy," Porthos said.

"It is remarkable what a man will confess when his life is threatened," Athos replied.

"Ah, yes, but we don't want them to claim later that they said it because their lives were threatened. D'Artagnan's life might be forfeit the minute that were to come out." Aramis said.

Porthos shook his head. "The lad might be challenged as well. The Lamberts, if they're not hung for the crime, might take him on. Or some cousin or uncle we don't know about."

Aramis sighed. "It seems the lad's life is being turned upside down yet again. If we do save him from the noose…"

Athos cut him off with a glare. "_When_ we save him from the noose."

Aramis held up a hand. "I misspoke. When we save him from the noose, his life here won't be what he wishes."

"If they've all turned on 'im like 'e said 'e can't really go back to the way things were when 'is dad was alive. You heard 'im. 'e said they're all talking about 'im. Tellin' the tale." Porthos couldn't hide his distaste for that sort of behavior. To a soldier, trust in your comrades was paramount. For The Inseparables, anything other than complete trust was unimaginable.

"We will deal with the aftermath tomorrow at dawn. Until then let us remain focused on our objective." Athos chided gently.

Porthos shrugged. "They could be anywhere."

"Their father's murderer hangs tomorrow. They won't leave Lupiac until they've watched that." Athos said.

They left the wagon not far from the road and approached the house on foot. Alert for anything unusual, they moved silently towards the nearest window. Athos peered inside. He held up a hand with two fingers raised telling the others how many he could see inside.

Athos signaled to Aramis to move around the house. He would enter from the front door, and Athos and Porthos from the back.

Aramis moved stealthily around the house, but had only made it part of the way when he felt the presence of someone just behind him. He knew Athos and Porthos well enough to have been able to tell if one of his friends were behind him. This was someone else. He whirled around holding his pistol straight out before him. The young man who'd been following him came skidding to a stop and half-turned as though to run. Aramis called out to him. "I'm the best shot in the King's Musketeers. I can shoot you just as easily in the back."

The stranger stopped, dropping his sword. He had no pistol, so he raised his empty hands, his eyes wide. "Please don't shoot."

"Yet presumably, you were quite prepared to come up behind me and run me through," Aramis mused.

"He what?" Porthos booming voice came towards them from behind the young man.

"Oh, see what you've done." Aramis said to the young man. "You've upset him," Aramis shook his head as though in lament.

Porthos drew up next to the man and grabbed him by the throat. "Yeah, I'm upset. Maybe I'll rip 'is arm off."

"Porthos, thanks to you, there are quite enough one-armed men wandering the streets of Paris without you deciding to inflict the injury across the whole of the French countryside." He looked at the stranger, shrugging once. "What can I say? He's not very creative. He's gotten in a rut. Always ripping arms off."

The man looked fearfully at Porthos. "Please don't…"

"Maybe if you give him something he'll leave you alone," Aramis suggested as though the idea had just occurred to him.

"What? What would he want?"

Aramis shook his head. He gestured toward Porthos. "Ask him."

"What do you want? Anything. I'll give you anything."

"Don't want anything." Porthos grinned.

"But…"

"Come now, maybe if he told you everything he knows about the death of Monsieur Lambert?" Aramis suggested.

Porthos seemed to consider that. "Well, maybe, if 'e 'as a good tale to tell."

The man blinked. "But…" he began.

Porthos made a move as though to get a better grip on the man's arm.

"All right! Charles d'Artagnan killed my father."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged confused glances. Having been certain the Lambert brothers had been behind this, they could now believe either that the man was lying so as not to admit complicity in patricide, or he truly believed d'Artagnan had done the deed.

The man began to laugh. "He won't make it to his appointment with the gallows tomorrow morning. He's going to commit suicide tonight."

"What?" Porthos roared.

The man was laughing as though he'd no intention of stopping. "My brother has gone to his cell. He won't see the dawn!" He laughed some more, but Porthos, impatient and angry, punched him soundly sending him to the ground. He lay there not moving for a moment, but groaning loudly.

"I think he's broken," Aramis muttered.

"Who cares?"

"Indeed," said Athos as he came around the corner.

"Where were you?" Aramis demanded.

"You didn't need my help. If you had, I'd have offered it."

"D'Artagnan…"

"Yes. I'm going to take care of that. You two stay here and speak to the other two." Athos gestured toward the house. "See if you can learn anything. I'll see to d'Artagnan."

Aramis watched him go. He didn't bother with the borrowed wagon, but instead leaped onto the back of an already saddled horse amidst protests from the man at Porthos's feet.

"That's my horse! He can't take my horse!"

Porthos helped him up and shook him silent. "He can do as he pleases, and you better pray he gets there in time or you'll suffer for it."

The man fell silent.

"How do you want to do this?" Aramis asked Porthos.

Porthos shrugged. "Let's tie this one up and go in and see who's left."

"A sound plan as far as it goes."

"You got a better one?"

Aramis looked around as though an answer might be found written on the wind and inhaled deeply before turning back to Porthos. "No, not an inkling."

"All right then." Porthos found a bit of rope in the wagon and tied the man securely. He shoved one rag in his mouth and tied it there with another. "Don't want you helpin' whoever's left in the house, do we?" He chuckled.

Porthos drew his sword, and Aramis kept hold of his pistol as they crept towards the door. They could hear someone moving around, but hoped to surprise the man.

"So, what was it you heard?" The voice called.

They didn't respond. "Gustave? Can you hear me?" Footsteps came closer and Porthos and Aramis positioned themselves on either side of the door.

The door swung open and out came the man in question. He was walking fast and obviously irritated at having to come outside after his brother. He was also obviously not really expecting trouble.

Trouble now stood behind him in the form of two rather formidable Musketeers.

"Turn around slowly, Monsieur," Aramis said. "I have a pistol pointed at your head."

The man raised his hands and turned. "Where's Gustave?"

Aramis gestured to the side of the house. "He's tied up around there. Tell us Monsiuer, you are Gustave's brother, are you not? What can you tell us about the murder of your father?"

"I know that the hothead at the next farm did it." The man spat the words, anger to rival any they'd seen from d'Artagnan animating his face. "He plunged a knife into his back and watched as he bled to death!"

"Nah, he didn't," Porthos said in a tone more indicative that he found the man's comment idiotic than that they were discussing something so serious as murder.

"He did!" The man dropped his hands, and his eyes were wide with fury. "We saw it from the crest in the hilltops. We couldn't get there in time. The knife was still in my father's back! _In his back!_ The coward didn't even have the decency to face my father before killing him!"

"You're talkin' rubbish!" Porthos seethed.

"You're his friends! You'd say anything to save him!"

"You got that right," Porthos muttered. "But in this case, we don't 'ave to lie. D'Artagnan wouldn't kill a man like that. There's nothing that would make 'im stab a man in the back!"

"How would you know?" The man demanded, staring at Porthos with a look that told both Musketeers how much he had lost when his father had been killed. "You've knew him for a few days and that was a few months ago! I've known him all my life!"

"Then you know 'is father always talked of honor. That's what I learned of Alexandre d'Artagnan! Would 'is son abandon something 'e likely spoke about every day of 'is life?"

The man stopped for a moment, staring at Porthos as though this were a new idea. The anger faded replaced with thoughtfulness and uncertainty.

"Was there blood?" Aramis asked calmly.

"Of course there was blood!" The anger streamed back, but was tinged now with impatience. "He was stabbed!"

Aramis shook his head and spoke as though he were explaining this to a small child. "On Monsieur Charles d'Artagnan. Was there blood on his arms, his clothes, anywhere upon his person?"

The man went still. The anger melted from his face and was replaced by wonder and realization. "No," he whispered. "Not a drop."

Aramis smiled sadly. "Unlikely that he did it then, wouldn't you say. Whoever you saw attacking your father, it was not Charles d'Artagnan."

He closed his eyes as though merely understanding what Aramis had said was an unbearable burden. "Wait, then why would he confess?"

Porthos shot a look at Aramis. Aramis frowned. "He wouldn't confess."

"We were told he confessed. We were certain…" he looked away, but looked back at Aramis, his eyes full of fear and panic. "Marcel went to…" he swallowed.

"Ah, Marcel? Is that the other brother? Yes, Gustave mentioned that he was going to visit d'Artagnan. He'll fail."

"I have to talk to him. Explain it. We've been duped. We assumed it was d'Artagnan. My brother won't stop short of being killed. I don't want to lose anyone else, Monsieur. Let me go to the prison." He was pleading, his hands clasped before him in supplication.

Aramis looked to Porthos. Their silent communication seemed to unnerve their captive.

"Very well." Aramis said. "We'll all go. Your brother is staying tied up in the wagon. You will go with your hands tied. We cannot trust either of you where you might do more harm to d'Artagnan."

The man nodded and held out his hands to be bound. "Just get us there quickly."

Aramis again glanced at Porthos. If the man were this eager to go to his brother and this willing to be bound on the way then that could only mean the brothers hadn't killed their father. If they saved d'Artagnan from being murdered, they could still lose him to the hangman's noose.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I'm both proud of this chapter and a bit anxious about posting it. I'd greatly appreciate a review to know how it comes across. Happy New Year!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 7

Resistance and Rescue

D'Artagnan shivered in the cold cell. He thought of the coming spring, but he would never see it. Bitterness surged up from somewhere deep inside, and despite his promise to Athos, he felt hope slipping from him. He would die at dawn. There would be no pardon. He shivered again and tried to pull himself into a tighter ball. The fire had long since died, and the torch in the wall sconce was sputtering. Soon he'd be in darkness, but, knowing that dawn's light would bring his death, he found himself welcoming the dark.

He heard a sound that made his head snap up and look to where he knew the door was. There was never sound here after dark. The guard was usually asleep in his chair outside the door. The rest of the building was quiet. The town deserted as people had returned to their homes for the evening.

The sound came again, and d'Artagnan realized it was a key. Someone was opening his cell door. His first thought was panic. They'd decided to hang him tonight to avoid what would surely be a spectacle as the townspeople would turn out in the morning to watch him die. He raised himself up into a half crouch, his arms, chains dangling from the manacles, raised before him in a futile, but instinctive bid to defend himself.

The door opened. He could hear the guard speaking. "…be quick about it and make it look like suicide." D'Artagnan saw coins pass from the man to the guard, and then the guard disappeared. D'Artagnan knew he wouldn't be back before this man could kill him. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. It would be pointless. He couldn't win, but suddenly he realized it wasn't in him to give up and be quietly killed. Perhaps it was the arrival of his friends that inspired him to be more than he thought he could be. Perhaps it was merely desperation to hold onto life even if only for a few more hours. Whatever the reason, his decision was made.

He would go down fighting.

The light from the torch wielded by whoever entered was blinding. D'Artagnan blinked rapidly willing his eyes to adjust. "Who is it?" He called out as he shuffled further from the door.

A laugh.

"What do you want?"

Another laugh.

D'Artagnan opted not to waste his breath until he got a response.

The door closed and the light shifted. D'Artagnan realized the person who'd entered was replacing the burned out torch in the wall sconce with the lit one he'd just brought inside. He heard a thud as the old torch was dropped.

His eyes finally adjusted, d'Artagnan gasped in surprise. "Marcel Lambert."

"I'm glad you recognize me, Charles. At least you'll know why I've come to kill you."

"I didn't kill your father, Marcel." D'Artagnan held out a hand to placate the man, horrified that it was trembling.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Why would I? I know too well that kind of pain." His heart flooded with new grief at the thought of his father. For an instant he imagined Alexandre d'Artagnan rushing through the door and explaining everything away, embracing him and bringing him home. He pushed the dream aside. "I wouldn't inflict it on anyone."

"You were always a hotheaded one. First to fight, first to draw…"

"They hang me at dawn! Why dirty your own hands?" D'Artagnan had to know. To him, this made no sense. Of course, he was getting used to that. Nothing had made sense to him since he held his father, bleeding, dying in the rain.

"My hands won't be dirty. This is a righteous killing." He lashed out with his sword, but d'Artagnan stepped backwards, stumbling in his haste to be out of the way of that blade.

Marcel laughed again. "Hardly the fancy footwork I'd have expected from you, Charles."

D'Artagnan didn't waste his breath with banter. He watched his opponent, his body tense to anticipate Marcel's moves. He had no sword, but he had his wits, though he feared they, like the instincts he'd long depended upon in any fight, had been dulled by a month in a cell with little food and water and nothing but grief for company.

Marcel lunged again, and d'Artagnan threw his chains around the sword disarming him.

Marcel let loose an angry roar and scrabbled for his sword. D'Artagnan swung his chain again and hit Marcel in the temple. Momentarily stunned, he stumbled. D'Artagnan scrabbled on the floor hoping to reach the sword first.

He failed.

Once again armed, Marcel lashed out, but his fury had taken over his better instincts, and d'Artagnan easily dodged. They fought then, d'Artagnan mainly trying to stay away from the blade and talk sense to the man, and Marcel letting his anger and grief make a poor swordsman of him.

D'Artagnan upended the cot in the corner of the room and used it as a makeshift shield, keeping it between them while he used one hand to toss the blanket in Marcel's direction and foul up his sword work.

He succeeded in knocking Marcel's sword to the floor, but Marcel threw himself in d'Artagnan's direction and ripped the cot from his grip. Marcel pummeled d'Artagnan. Lack of food and proper rest combined with the stress of the last month or more left d'Artagnan in less than prime condition, and Marcel knew how to take advantage of that. Fierce blows caught him in the stomach and in the face. Wherever he could land a blow, Marcel made it count.

Taking d'Artagnan by the shoulders, Marcel shoved him viciously against the wall.

D'Artagnan felt his head impact and bounce back again. Dazed, he lost several moments unable to do anything to defend himself, and briefly unaware that he _should_ defend himself. Marcel took advantage of it, striking him against the wall again and again before holding him there with one hand and hitting him in the stomach with the other.

Coming slightly to his senses, d'Artagnan struggled to get away drawing away from the wall and to the right. Marcel had anticipated the move and shoved him at the same time. D'Artagnan fell hard. The wind went out of him as he struck the floor, and he was stunned motionless for a moment.

Marcel recovered his sword and slashed in d'Artagnan's direction, but he was off balance. D'Artagnan rolled instinctively, somehow sensing the blow, and the sword drew blood in a long shallow streak across d'Artagnan's back. He cried out more in surprise than pain, and his hand moved across the floor as he tried to push his way up. In scrabbling around on the floor, his hand found the forgotten unlit torch Marcel had dropped when he'd entered the cell. Getting to his feet, he brandished the cold torch like a club in front of him, hitting out blindly and managed to knock Marcel down. Seizing the advantage, he threw himself at Marcel landing on the man's back. Wrapping his chains around the man's throat, he pulled back with all his might and forced the man upright again.

Marcel struggled against the hold. He dropped his sword and used both hands to pull the chain, trying in vain to break d'Artagnan's hold, but it was a hold born of fear, desperation, and rage.

"I…didn't…do…it," d'Artagnan struggled to say as he twisted the chains tighter.

"Liar!" Marcel shouted. "You are a murderer and you dishonor your father's memory!" Marcel would have said more, but d'Artagnan's rage swelled and he twisted the chain tighter. An unearthly howl came from deep inside him, and he poured out his grief, his rage, and his utter desolation…everything he'd felt since his father's death.

It was then the door burst open.

**The Musketeers**

"D'Artagnan!" Athos cried out as he entered the cell, and he was undone by what he saw. He had expected to have to save the boy's life and here he was screaming, raging, holding a man by the throat with an almost primal, feral ferocity. The Musketeer's eyes widened in surprise and he stepped forward. His mind raced to find a way to stop the boy from murdering the man he held in a shockingly iron grip.

"D'Artagnan, it's Athos! Listen to me. Release him!"

There was no change in the tableau except that d'Artagnan's victim seemed closer to passing out. "D'Artagnan! Now! Release him! I'm here, boy. Let him go! If you don't, you will never forgive yourself."

"A…Athos?" D'Artagnan mumbled, and in that instant it seemed sanity returned. As if only just realizing what had happened, he released his hold on both Marcel and the chains. Marcel crumpled to the floor gasping and coughing, trying desperately to take in a normal breath. D'Artagnan stared at his hands as though amazed at what they had almost done.

Athos ignored Marcel. He saw only d'Artagnan. As soon as the Gascon released Marcel, Athos rushed to his side. D'Artagnan, his strength gone, fell to his knees, but Athos caught him before his knees struck the floor. "I've got you," he whispered as he held the boy. "I've got you."

Athos moved him towards the wall, propped him there, and reached for the cot and set it upright intending to ease d'Artagnan onto it to examine his injuries. A soft noise behind him drew his attention and he rose to face it. When he stood, Marcel, armed once more, held his sword out as though to attack d'Artagnan, who had by this time slid down the wall to sit in a heap on the floor.

Athos drew his own sword so quickly Marcel was left blinking in surprise at seeing it in the Musketeer's hand and pointed at his chest.

"Withdraw." Athos spoke softly, but there was a world of menace in both his voice and his eyes.

"He murdered my father!"

It looked to the Musketeer as though the man believed those words, but he would worry over that at a later time.

Athos took a step closer to the man, positioning himself between him and d'Artagnan, who still sat senseless where Athos had left him. "He did nothing of the sort. He is a more honorable man than I have met in all my years in service to the King. It would never occur to him to kill an unarmed man. Now, persist if you must, but if you do, know this: I. Will._ End. _You."

Marcel stared into Athos's eyes. Whatever he saw there coupled with the Musketeers words caused him to drop his sword.

Athos kept his own weapon where it was. "Now, leave." He gestured towards the door and waited until the man was gone.

Once he'd left, Athos dropped to his knees at d'Artagnan's side. He studied the younger man who sat on the floor hands limp in his lap, eyes closed and head hanging down so his hair obscured his face. "D'Artagnan?" Athos spoke softly, gently. He didn't want to startle the lad.

D'Artagnan, still insensible, moaned but did not open his eyes.

Slowly, gently, Athos moved him to the bed and began to look over his injuries. To his relief, he found no broken bones. His lip was split, however, and there were bruises all over his midsection. There was also a rather large lump on the back of his head and a long, shallow cut across his back.

He was no sooner wishing for Aramis's presence than the other man was opening the door to the cell. Whatever quip was poised on the sharpshooter's lips was gone the moment he took in the scene in the cell. He turned and called over his shoulder. "Porthos, bring water…" taking a glace at the young Gascon, he cursed and added, "and light."

Aramis made his way to Athos's side. "What happened?"

Athos shook his head. "It's a story for another time. For now, I will tell you what I know of his injuries, though I am sure you'll make your own diagnosis." Athos detailed what he had found as Aramis's hands moved over d'Artagnan. He paused at the ribs, and Athos breathed a sigh of relief when he confirmed that none were broken. The bump on the head was a worry, and he lightly tapped d'Artagnan's cheek to bring him around.

It was then that Porthos entered. He carried two buckets of water. With him was Gustave. Now untied, the Lambert brother seemed contrite. He carried two torches. Behind him came a cowed, remorseful Marcel followed by Bertrand, the third brother, carrying firewood. The two brothers fell to stoking the fire while Gustave set the torches in the wall sconces—one by the door and one near to the bed.

Porthos meanwhile moved swiftly to kneel at Aramis's side. He bit his lip as he took in d'Artagnan's condition. "How is he?"

"Better than he should be, but worse than I would like," Aramis admitted.

"D'Artagnan! Wake up, d'Artagnan!" Athos called. With another groan, d'Artagnan opened his eyes. Athos was the first person he saw.

"Athos…" he trailed off and raised a hand to his eyes seemingly about to shade them from the light, but abandoned the movement. His hand hovered there as though not sure what to do. He moved it to the back of his head where the bump was, but Aramis slapped it away. D'Artagnan's hand hung there as he focused once more on Athos. " Athos…did I…tell me I didn't…"

Athos caught the flailing hand. "You have not harmed anyone, d'Artagnan. Aramis will see to your injuries, but we must talk while he does. The hours grow short, and our surmise that the Lamberts were responsible for framing you appears incorrect." He glanced at Porthos for confirmation and the larger Musketeer nodded.

D'Artagnan sighed and shook his head once before clenching his eyes shut at the pain the action produced.

"You have a nasty bump on the head, d'Artagnan. Please be more careful," Aramis suggested softly.

Slowly, d'Artagnan looked up at his friends. "I don't know who else it might be," he confessed.

"What about the big fellow?" Porthos asked holding his hand up to indicate the massive height of the man who'd let them in to see d'Artagnan that afternoon.

"That's Lemieux. He's only been in Lupiac since last May."

"And he's in charge?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"He had papers. He's been appointed Magistrate of Lupiac."

"And who's appointed him then?" Porthos asked, suspicion darkening his eyes.

"The King. Lemieux says he reports directly to the King on all matters in Lupiac." D'Artagnan replied.

Aramis, Athos and Porthos glanced at each other in such a way that d'Artagnan could see something was amiss.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

Athos looked the young man in the eye. "D'Artagnan, the King does not trouble himself with the day-to-day affairs of Lupiac aside from the collection of taxes. Lemieux, whoever he is, would not report to the Crown the disputes of farmers over fence lines."

D'Artagnan had not been in Paris long, but it had been long enough to give him an idea of just how insignificant life in Gascony was in the eyes of Parisians. "You're saying he lied. He has no official appointment. He merely walked in one day and took power." D'Artagnan frowned. "But why? What does that gain him? He's become the most powerful man in Lupiac, but what good is that?"

Athos was impressed by the boy's questions, especially in light of his current condition. He was learning to ask the right ones, and there was a bit of his old fire there in his eyes. "You tell us. Has he manipulated anything? Has he gained anything since coming here?"

D'Artagnan was about to say no, but he hesitated.

"What is it?" Aramis asked. "No matter how small."

"He's taken on a few farms."

"What does that mean?" Porthos had gotten to his feet and now stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed.

D'Artagnan shifted a bit on the bed, clearly intending to sit himself up, but gasped in pain. Refusing to give in to it, he struggled to a sitting position but was left winded and unable to answer. Gustave cleared his throat and supplied the information for the Musketeers. "If a farmer dies with no heir, or if a farmer abandons his farm, Lemieux takes it on. He appoints someone to farm the land, and all the profit goes to the Crown."

"Abandons his farm? Surely that's not common!" Aramis's eyes were wide in surprise.

"Common, no," d'Artagnan admitted, "but Monsieur Duchamps left one morning in late fall. The house was empty. The horse was gone. Someone remembered him mentioning going to live with family, but it was vague. Lemieux said he would take on the farm until we found out one way or another what had happened to him."

"Dying without an heir…what's that about?" Porthos asked.

"Again, it's not common," Marcel supplied, "but there was a fire last June. The Beaumont family home was destroyed. There were no survivors."

D'Artagnan had been watching the Musketeers closely. He shook his head, wincing once more at the pain, but pushing on regardless. "How could I be so blind? He's killed them all, hasn't he? The Crown gets no money. He's keeping it." D'Artagnan began to struggle against his chains trying to get to his feet. Rage was in his eyes.

Athos, though glad to see it there, put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "D'Artagnan, you can do little from a cell awaiting execution. Let us do this."

D'Artagnan paled at the mention of his impending death and settled back. "Why am I still alive?" He asked the question of the room in general, but his eyes soon found Athos's. "If he murdered Monsieur Duchamps and the Beaumonts for their land, then why did he not murder me rather than frame me for murder?"

"They saw it," Porthos said.

"What?" Athos stared up at the large Musketeer.

"The Lambert brothers saw the murder from the hilltop." Porthos explained. "He must 'ave realized it. He framed d'Artagnan to keep suspicion from 'imself." He glanced at Aramis for confirmation.

Aramis was nodding. "He probably planned to have them commit suicide or move far away from Lupiac after the hanging. Poor dear boys just lost their father…something like that… Instead, you stumble onto the body, the Lamberts arrive thinking it must have been you they saw kill their father. He thinks he's the luckiest man on earth. You go to prison. He hangs you. The Lamberts disappear sometime after that. He gets two farms that fast."

Athos turned to Aramis and Porthos. "We have little time, and we must uncover enough to save the boy from the hangman."

Aramis nodded. "We can certainly cast enough doubt that the people here will fight back."

"We don't know how many people are working with him. He brought two men with him. It may be that some of Lupiac's citizens are being used, but some may be complicit." He looked from Aramis to Porthos. "We must tread carefully." He turned back to d'Artagnan. "You will need to keep from saying anything to Lemieux that will tip him off to what we're doing. He must not realize what we have figured out here."

D'Artagnan nodded. "He will learn nothing from me."

"Good lad," Porthos said.

Aramis kept working on the wounds, and Athos and Porthos turned their attention to the Lambert brothers stepping out into the hall to afford d'Artagnan some privacy. "As for you," Athos said, letting them see some of the fury he'd held back. "You tried to kill him. A man who was chained to a wall and sentenced to die in a few hours anyway, and you came in here to run him through. Not a fair fight by any definition."

"That it wasn't," Porthos agreed eyeing the trio as though he were trying to decide which of the three should die first.

"Forgive us, Monsieur," Bertrand said. "We lost our heads in our grief. We were blinded by what Lemieux told us."

"What was that, then?" Porthos had to know.

"He told us that d'Artagnan had confessed. He said d'Artagnan had relished the act of murder and that he'd described it in obscene detail. He's told anyone who will listen." Betrand looked away in embarrassment.

Porthos whistled long and low. "That explains why everyone in Lupiac believes the tale. They think he admitted his guilt."

"Was there no trial?" Athos asked.

Betrand shook his head. "Lemieux said that since he'd confessed there was no need."

Athos shook his head and pulled Porthos aside for a private word. "D'Artagnan didn't mention that."

"Well, 'e was pretty far gone when we got here. Didn't seem 'imself. It's a lot to go through on your own." Porthos said.

Athos nodded and turned back to the brothers. "Where would Lemieux keep his papers of appointment? Where does he live? Does he work alone? Who were those large men in the office? "

Bertrand shrugged. "He lives in a house across the main square from here. The men are mercenaries as far as I can tell, but they are good monsieur, they are very good with their swords. As for his papers, I suppose they'd be either in his office or in his home. I suppose it would be cumbersome to keep them on his person."

Athos nodded. "We'll have to search. Office first, but knowing how our luck runs, they'll either be on him or in his rooms."

They searched the offices but found nothing from the King, forged or otherwise. "There's no time! We have to call Lemieux out!" Porthos shouted dropping a ledger in frustration.

"We have to find the papers." Athos picked up the ledger. "If we do, we can arrest him for forgery, for seizing power without authorization, and likely for repeated murders as well as treason."

"D'Artagnan dies at dawn or did you forget?" Porthos asked, fury dropping his words to a whisper, his eyes blazing in his fury.

"I forget nothing," Athos said with the air of a man who had much he wished to forget.

Porthos nodded, regret in his eyes. "Sorry, Athos…I didn't…."

"Athos! Porthos!" Aramis's voice called from the cell.

The two raced back fearful of what they might find.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your reviews. I'm glad so many of you liked the last chapter. Here is chapter 8. I'm hard at work on chapter 9, but it may be a few days before I can post it. Please review!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 8

Investigation and Execution

Aramis watched Porthos and Athos head into the hall to have a word with the Lambert brothers. He wondered, given the situation, which of the two would keep their heads in the face of what had just happened. He decided that if neither did, the Lamberts wouldn't suffer as much as they deserved.

He turned his attention to d'Artagnan. The injuries in themselves, save the bump on the head, weren't as bad as they might be, but d'Artagnan's overall condition was worrisome. The lad was trembling almost uncontrollably, and Aramis placed the threadbare blanket across his shoulders before moving to the fireplace and stoking it into as high and cheery a blaze as he could manage.

D'Artagnan was blinking and averting his eyes from the light when Aramis returned to his side. It was heart breaking to the would-be cleric to see the change in the young man. When they'd left him after his father's funeral, d'Artagnan had been grieving, but the events in the interim seemed to have left him broken. He had also noticed an odd look on Athos's face and wanted nothing more than to interrogate the man to discover what had happened before he and Porthos had arrived. From the injuries d'Artagnan now sported, he knew Marcel Lambert had indeed attacked, but judging from the condition in which he and Porthos had discovered Lambert—leaning against the wall in the hall outside the cell door, struggling to take in air and rubbing at his bruised throat—it seemed their young Gascon had given at least as much as he'd gotten.

Shaking his head, he resigned himself to his curiosity and centered his attention on his young friend. The head injury worried him, but a bump was a thing he was least able to treat, so he focused on the shallow cut across his friend's back. It was too shallow to need stitches, so he cleaned it as best he could and bandaged it with the fresh bandages he'd taken to keeping in his own saddlebags whenever he travelled. That done he looked the young man in the eye.

D'Artagnan's rage seemed spent and he sat almost motionless, and Aramis could almost believe he wasn't aware of his surrounding, but for the frown of concentration on his face. He kept his silence not wishing to distract the Gascon from his thoughts, which seemed terribly important somehow.

The younger man turned then, gasping at the pain the sudden movement caused and put out a still trembling hand to grasp Aramis's arm for support.

"What? D'Artagnan, what is it?" Aramis asked softly.

"My father…he'd worked it out. This is why he wanted to go to Paris. I'm sure he hoped for tax relief, but he knew it all! He discovered Lemieux's plots and he had somehow gotten proof of it…something he knew he could tell the King that would irrefutably convince him that Lemieux was breaking the law."

"D'Artagnan…if that's so then it's no wonder Lemieux wants you dead. Perhaps he thinks your father told you."

"Lemieux has tried to ask about it, but I never understood his questions. They seemed so vague to me."

The thought alarmed Aramis. Judging by d'Artagnan's condition upon the Musketeers arrival, Lemieux had not merely 'asked' about it. Aramis was not unfamiliar with interrogations and all of their pitfalls. A soldier could expect such treatment from an enemy if caught, but d'Artagnan was not a soldier. He was a Lupiac farmer. He shook his head, but knew there was little he could do about this unsavory turn of events.

He dismissed it from his mind as he spoke to d'Artagnan. "Likely he didn't want to say to much in case you didn't know what your father knew. He couldn't quite trust to that, so he kept you isolated and planned your death." Aramis looked the young man in the eye. "Do you have any idea what your father saw?"

D'Artagnan considered the question. "I know he met with Lemieux once. I'd thought it was a chance meeting, but now…they were having a drink together, but the atmosphere seemed tense. When I came to the table, I asked my father if everything was all right. He said it was, and …" d'Artagnan gasped in sudden realization.

"What do you remember?"

"He'd glanced pointedly at Lemieux's bag. Lemieux caught the look and told him if he ever caught him going through his things again, he'd have him arrested. I took offense…my father stood and led me away before I could demand an apology…" He turned to look Aramis in the eye. "I know what they need to find."

Aramis smiled and called out to their friends. "Athos! Porthos!"

The two Musketeers raced into the room, and Aramis had a moment of regret as he realized they'd assumed the worst when they'd heard his call. "He's remembered something," Aramis said gesturing to d'Artagnan.

"Lemieux has a saddlebag he never keeps far from reach." D'Artagnan said, excitement making him speak faster than usual. "He takes it with him everywhere. What you're looking for…the appointment papers…they'll likely be in there."

Betrand, who had followed the Musketeers at Aramis's cry agreed. "Don't know why I didn't think of that. He's careful with that thing. Touchy about it, too."

"Touchy how?" Porthos asked.

"Won't let anyone touch it. Gets jittery if anyone is anywhere near it."

"That's it." Athos said. "We need to get that bag." He gestured to d'Artagnan. "Aramis stay with him."

"I'm locked in a cell. I don't need watching." D'Artagnan's protests were not unexpected.

"You're injured. You need looking after." Athos insisted.

"You'll be faster at this if he's with you," d'Artagnan countered.

"Nonsense…" Athos began.

"And while you both argue, time is ticking away," Aramis said. "He's fine, Athos. We'll be what…across the square? Lemiuex will be at home. Perhaps you'll need me to create a distraction."

"I can do that," Porthos suggested.

"Your distractions usually involve destruction," Aramis said.

"That's very distracting," Porthos pointed out.

"Gentlemen, I fear Aramis is right. We don't have time for arguments." Athos looked at the brothers. "Bertrand, stay here and watch the cell. If anyone tries to get to d'Artagnan, find one of us." Bertrand nodded reluctantly.

Athos moved to d'Artagnan placing a hand fondly on the boy's head. "It won't be long now. We won't abandon you."

D'Artagnan nodded. Fear was still there in his eyes, but there was hope now. Athos was glad of that.

He turned to the others. "Let's go."

**The Musketeers**

Porthos, Aramis, and Athos moved to the home the Lamberts had indicated. It was dark in the early pre-dawn hours, but Porthos could just see smoke trickling up the chimney, though the amount indicated the fire was dying. Porthos intended for that to be all that died this day.

Approaching the door, Porthos bent down to inspect the lock. A smile spread across his face, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tool, tiny in his large hands. Inserting it into the lock it was just a few minutes work before the door swung open. He smiled at Athos and Aramis, who seemed impressed yet again by his talent with locks. He smirked. "See," he whispered. "I didn't destroy anything."

"Yet," argued Aramis softly. "And that was lock picking not distraction!"

Porthos offered only a grin and a shrug in response.

They opened the door carefully lest a squeak or rusty hinge alert the household. Moving carefully, they split up. Aramis, lightest on his feet, moved up the stairs while Porthos and Athos searched the first floor. Aramis was only upstairs for a few moments before he came racing down. Athos and Porthos met him at the bottom.

"What? You'll wake…" Porthos began only for Aramis to interrupt him.

"Not there. He's not there. He hasn't been in the room at all as near as I can tell. If he keeps the bag with him always, he and the bag have not been in this house in some time." Aramis whispered.

Porthos and Athos both cursed. "Where would 'e be?" Porthos ground out the words through teeth clenched in frustration.

Aramis looked through the window toward the Lamberts. "He could be with a mistress. Perhaps the Lamberts will know."

"You would think of mistresses first." Porthos clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"We must all draw on our own experiences," Aramis said as they raced from the house toward Gustave and Marcel.

**The Musketeers**

It was thirty minutes later that the trio of Musketeers finally saw Lemieux. The Musketeers had borrowed horses from a stable near the town center. Upon leaving the house, Marcel had raced towards them explaining that he'd just seen Lemieux leaving town. He had the bag with him, and had just parted ways with one of his men, a large, scary looking fellow whose name Marcel did not know. They found Lemieux standing in a clearing some distance from the town center near to a small, dark house. He seemed anxious. He checked his saddlebags and brought out several bottles. He moved across the small clearing towards the dark house and he hefted the two bottles he held in his hands as though judging their weight.

Aramis gestured toward the horse to be sure Athos and Porthos saw it, then he crept towards the animal. His eyes were on the saddlebag, and he couldn't help but be consumed by his desire to find the papers that would swap this man for d'Artagnan in the hangman's noose.

Aramis reached the bag and began pulling it from the horse's back. It was heavier than he expected, and he fumbled as he pulled it away. It was then he felt the touch of cold steel on his neck.

"I do not like men who try to take what belongs to me," Lemieux said. "Release the bag."

"I would love to comply," Aramis admitted, "but I cannot take orders from you, Monsieur, when I am compelled to take them from someone else."

"Who?" Lemieux asked.

"Me." Athos said. His own sword struck Lemieux's blade away from Aramis. Lemieux glanced around as though for help, but he was alone.

Lemieux backed away from Aramis and Athos, only to back into Porthos who grabbed hold of him across the chest. "Made that easy," the big Musketeer mumbled.

"Release me! I am appointed by the King…"

Athos laughed. "Aramis, go through the papers." Aramis did as he was told and in a few moments, he held the forged orders. He tutted in mock sympathy. "You didn't get this right at all, did you? The paper, the writing, the seals. All wrong. Good try, but complete failure." Aramis handed the papers to Athos.

Athos glanced at them and tucked them inside his doublet. "We are the King's Musketeers, and we arrest you in the King's name. The charges are too many to list now, but we will have them enumerated by the time we get you to Paris."

The man paled. "Surely, we can come to some sort of arrangement…" he trailed off as Porthos's grip tightened.

"Did he just try to bribe us?" Porthos asked Athos in utter disbelief.

"Feeble attempt," Athos admitted, "but yes. Secure him, Porthos. We have a hard ride ahead of us."

Porthos tied Lemiuex's hands behind his back and, for good measure, tied his feet as well. "Please…" he called to the men desperately. "I can share with you. I've made a lot of money here. I was about to increase it." He gestured to the dark home behind them. It was still too early for the farmer and his family to have risen, and the bottles and unlit torch the man had dropped in order to stop Aramis from taking his papers told all too clearly what he'd intended.

Athos leaned over the man, rage blazing in his eyes. "You would kill more people just to add to your wealth?"

"Our wealth! I'm willing to share…"

Athos punched the man more soundly than he'd ever punched anyone.

Athos sighed. "Porthos, throw him on the back of Aramis's horse."

"Why me? Why do I have to carry the man?" Aramis complained loudly.

Athos almost smiled. "You are the lightest and that man is quite big. Porthos's horse could not carry both him and Lemiuex."

"And yours?" Aramis asked.

Athos mounted his horse as Porthos, laughing, threw Lemiuex over the back of Aramis's horse. "Mine doesn't need to." Athos replies as he turned his horse toward's Lupiac's center. "Lemieux is already on yours."

**The Musketeers**

D'Artagnan spent the last few hours of his last night fading in and out of consciousness. His head ached and his ribs hurt with every movement, and yet he could not remain still. As he watched the sky begin to lighten, he tried to hold onto the belief that the Musketeers would return for him.

He heard arguing. Bertrand's voice drifted to him and he realized the man was trying to convince someone to leave d'Artagnan be for a time. He heard a muffled reply and then Monsieur Tremblay opened the door to his cell declaring it was time. If the man noticed that his prisoner was in worse shape than he had been when he'd been secured the night before, he made no mention of it.

Looking past Tremblay, d'Artagnan tried to see if Bertrand were still there, but Tremblay shouted at him. "He is gone. How you got the man to believe you didn't do it, and to stand here trying to tell me to give you more time, I don't know."

D'Artagnan couldn't reply. He opened his mouth to protest his innocence, but the words would not come. Instead, he stood waiting for the man to unlock him from the wall. The chains were not completely removed, but instead Tremblay used a length of it was to restrain his arms behind his back.

He looked Tremblay in the eyes and for a brief moment the man returned his gaze as though he could not look away. Monsieur Tremblay had known him all his life. He had been a good friend of his father. He had sat at his father's table sharing stories of the days when they'd been young and carefree. He'd sat in front of his father's hearth to comfort the senior d'Artagnan in the days following d'Artagnan's mother's death. He'd stood in his father's house and claimed that he would always be there to help Alexandre "look after the boy." More recently, he'd been one of the men to help d'Artagnan carry his father's coffin to his grave.

Now, he stood in a cell preparing d'Artagnan for the hangman. D'Artagnan had to ask. He had little time left if he wanted this to make sense. "Monsieur Tremblay, you know me. Tell me you don't think I killed Monsieur Lambert."

Tremblay looked away and guided d'Artagnan forward. Realizing this was his last walk anywhere, D'Artagnan struggled turning to face the man. "How can you think me capable of murder?"

"Why, Charles? Why did you confess? Why would you do it? I know your father's death was a shock to you, and I know he kept you from lashing out on many occasions, but why would you do this?"

"Confess?" D'Artagnan frowned, his brows furrowed. "I did not confess. I would not. I didn't do it. Is that why there was no trial? Did Lemieux tell you I'd confessed?"

Tremblay shoved d'Artagnan now, a bit harder, but still half-hearted.

"I didn't do it! I swear to you on my father's name, on his grave, and on his soul! I did not take the life of Monsieur Lambert!" D'Artagnan turned again and searched the man's eyes.

Tremblay looked away. "It is too late, Charles. Too late."

D'Artagnan followed Tremblay's gaze and found himself looking at the duo who had accompanied Lemieux to Lupiac. They were staring at Tremblay as though they would tear him apart.

In that instant, d'Artagnan understood. These men would enforce Lemieux's will as though his word were law. To them, Lemiuex was the final word. Tremblay's fearful glances in their direction, the way he kept d'Artagnan carefully between himself and the men, it told d'Artagnan enough. Lupiac was in the firm grasp of a tyrant who sought only to increase his own wealth whatever the cost.

In that instant of understanding, he felt his anxiety bleed away. He was numb. He had no fight left in him. His exhaustion was complete and he realized that, in dying, he was really being given a chance to see his parents again. What was there for him here without them? He let Tremblay lead him down the corridors and out into the chilly morning. The sun had barely begun to tinge the clouds a golden rosy color, but the courtyard was already crowded with people. People he'd known all his life had come to see him hang. He scanned the crowd, and it was the sight of Madame Boucher that made him stop.

Tremblay, expecting the boy to fight, pulled a bit harder than was strictly necessary, and, already dizzy from his injuries and lack of sleep and food, d'Artagnan fell to his knees. The jolt of it made him wince, but he simply let Tremblay help him up and he continued to the courtyard. He could not understand why he felt nothing, but he thanked the Lord that it was so. He had dreaded the idea of being dragged to the large tree in the center of the square, struggling and straining at every step, especially if Madame Boucher were present. As his arms were behind his back and bound with heavy chains, he did not notice that his hands were shaking.

Monsieur Tremblay led him to a wagon that stood by the tree limb and forced him to climb awkwardly onto it. Once he was standing on the wagon bed, Lemieux's two men came forward and bound his legs as well. There would be no chance to run if the rope broke.

Tremblay cleared his throat and made his announcement. "For the crime of murder, Charles d'Artagnan is hereby sentenced to hang."

He stepped aside then, and Lemieux's henchmen carefully placed the rope around d'Artagnan's neck and pulled it painfully tight. It was at this point that Madame Boucher let out a wail. D'Artagnan heard it, but somehow, he couldn't connect to it. He knew what emotions he should be feeling, and yet, he was still utterly devoid of them. In contrast to his internal calm, his entire body began trembling so violently that the wagon seemed a precarious perch at best.

A distant sound of horses was growing louder. D'Artagnan knew that meant something, but between his sudden trembling and Madame Boucher's wailing, he couldn't think what. One of Lemieux's henchmen gagged him, tying the rough cloth much tighter than required.

It was then that Monsieur Tremblay placed a hood over his head.

The darkness was his undoing.

His heart beat faster and the thought that he would die in darkness made him dizzier as his breath quickened. "I'm innocent!" he tried to shout, knowing they couldn't really hear him through the gag and the heavy sack over his head.

A moment later, and the noose tightened around his neck as the wagon's team of horses was startled into a run. Convulsively, d'Artagnan's legs kicked back and forth, tied though they were. His arms struggled against the chains in an instinctive, though useless, bid to move to the rope and save himself. He felt his lungs struggle for breath, and he felt his muscles strain and tear. Then, he felt nothing at all.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Thanks so much for all your kind reviews. I'm working on the next chapter and hope to have that up soon. Please read and review.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 9

Rage and Revival

**The Musketeers**

The lone rider travelled the road to Paris from Lupiac not sparing his horse and allowing his own rage at recent events and his avaricious, opportunistic plans to consume him.

He cursed himself for having left Lupiac in Lemieux's hands. He'd almost lost the town when that stupid farmer had gotten a look at his papers. Brilliantly forged though Lemieux thought they were, he'd have done well to move in with force rather than finesse. The end result was the same. Why waste precious time and effort attempting to trick the villagers into complacency? Had he been there, he'd have handled it much more directly, and the farmer's son wouldn't be wasting away in a prison on trumped up murder charges. He'd be lying in a shallow grave with his father and the farm would already be theirs.

Lemieux would fail. He had seen that. When he'd reached their rendezvous point and seen Musketeers besting the fool, he had seen Lemieux looking around for his help. He laughed, but it was a mirthless, cruel sound, full of irritation. If Lemieux thought he would offer help then the man was a misguided fool. Lemieux's approach was too civilized. In this life, you take what you want. You didn't ingratiate yourself into a town's day-to-day life and let them think you were acting within the confines of the law. Life was so much easier when people were terrified of you. Respect and good standing were overrated. He would take Lemieux's plan and stand it on its ear. Lupiac would be his, then all of Gascony. He would move across France and take all there was to take, but, unlike Lemieux, he would do so with the Cardinal's blessing.

**The Musketeers**

The Musketeers raced for Lupiac's town center. Porthos was acutely aware of the light seeping, spreading, reaching across the horizon and he cursed it. They were close enough to see the square when Athos pulled ahead. Porthos swore he'd never seen the man ride so fast. He urged his horse to move faster, and finally saw what had caused Athos's speed. D'Artagnan was being forced into a wagon bed, a rope hanging from the tree limb above him.

Porthos kicked his horse almost viciously and with a burst of speed overtook Athos. He hunched down low over the neck of his steed. He could hear Athos shouting, but his attention was focused on d'Artagnan. He could see panic hit the boy when the hood was thrown over his head. He knew they only had moments to save their young friend.

One of Lemiuex's henchmen startled the horses and they ran, pulling the wagon after them. D'Artagnan fell. His body convulsed as it made futile yet instinctive attempts to save him. Porthos knew there was no hope there. Bound with ropes and chains he had no chance of breaking, d'Artagnan's life was, as Aramis would say, in the hands of the Lord…and, Porthos had to add, the Musketeers the Lord had sent. He brought his horse to within a few yards of the boy and hurled himself off the steed. He took the impact on his shoulder, rolled, and got to his feet all in one smooth motion. Racing the few feet to D'Artagnan's side, he got himself under the boy and tried to position himself to take all of his weight. Just as he managed it, he felt d'Artagnan go limp.

His heart skipped a beat. Was he dead, or had he passed out from panic? He looked frantically around for help. Once again, he could hear Athos yelling, but from his position, he couldn't see him. His eyes moved of their own accord drawn to the sight of Aramis.

Aramis galloped towards him, then slowed a bit, still some distance away because of the added weight of a trussed Lemieux. His focus was on d'Artagnan and Porthos, but as the horse moved, Aramis shifted his weight to his left leg. Standing in the stirrup, he raised his right leg and, slowing to a walk, he kicked out at Lemieux. The man tumbled from the horse's back, and, in that instant, Aramis urged his mount to speeds Porthos hadn't thought the workhorse could reach. As the horse tore up the ground, Aramis released the reins and reached for his musket. At a full gallop and remaining in the saddle only by the strength of his legs, Aramis fired.

Porthos was falling. He tried to keep himself under d'Artagnan to prevent further injury. As soon as they were down, Porthos scrambled to d'Artagnan's head. Yanking off the hood and tugging the rope from around the boy's neck—a rope Aramis's shot had neatly severed from the tree limb above—Porthos's first fear dissolved in a pool of relief as he realized d'Artagnan's neck had not broken. With hangings, such things were not uncommon.

He patted d'Artagnan's face trying to elicit some response. Aramis joined him, and though he was loath to abandon his position at the boy's side, he moved away to allow Aramis space to examine the lad. Aramis checked for breath, called the boy's name, and listened for a heartbeat.

Porthos froze as Aramis, his ear pressed to d'Artagnan's chest, closed his eyes and allowed one small tear to escape beneath his lashes. Anguish he could never have expected to feel roared through his heart.

"D'Artagnan?" He whispered, and heartbreak and grief infused the name.

Aramis's eyes flew open. "No! No, my friend!" He reached a hand out and placed it on Porthos's arm. "He is alive! I was overcome with relief, not grief!"

**The Musketeers**

Athos felt both fire and ice in his heart as he raced to save d'Artagnan. He shouted at the nearest of Lemieux's men and drew his sword as he leaped from his horse. "You are hanging an innocent man! Stop by order of the King's Musketeers!"

The man laughed, though the older man who was from Lupiac looked shocked and seemed to sway slightly. Athos disregarded him.

"You have been given an order by the King's Musketeers. Disobey at your peril!" Athos drew his sword and slashed at the man, who drew his sword as well. Soon, the second of Lemieux's men had joined them and the trio traded blows until they were all covered in a fine sheen of sweat in the early morning chill.

Athos parried and disarmed one of the men, but the other only pressed forward trying to crowd Athos so he had no space to maneuver. Athos moved back several steps and spared a glance at the tree where d'Artagnan hung. To his relief, Porthos was holding the boy up, and, if God were truly merciful, saving his life. He saw Aramis's shot and his mind reeled at the impossible perfection of it. It gave him hope that they were not too late.

Heartened by what he saw, Athos attacked. He ran straight at the man, and contrary to his usual fighting style, he screamed all the while. It was not a conscious choice, but his heart would not be silenced and poured his rage and frustration out as it tried to cope with the sight of d'Artagnan flailing at the end of a rope.

Nonplussed, the larger man drew back. The man's sword arm moved again as he failed to react to the raging Musketeer, and that was what Athos needed. He brought his sword around and deftly disarmed the man. Unwilling to give up the fight, the man pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it not at Athos, but at the small group by the base of the tree. They stood close enough that, if the man were to fire, chances were high that he'd hit one of the three men.

"No!" Athos roared, and lunged forward blocking the man's line of sight and plunging his sword through the man's chest with such ferocity that it went right through him and protruded out of his back. The startled mercenary stared at the sword's hilt protruding from the center of his chest for a moment before falling to the ground. Athos retrieved his sword and, not bothering to clean off the blood, turned to seek out the other mercenary.

By now the man he'd disarmed in the first moments of the fight had retrieved his blade and he came at Athos in a fury. The attack was brutal, the blows imbued with the man's strength and his anger, but Athos could match that strength and surpass that anger. He spared a glance at Porthos and Aramis leaning over d'Artagnan and he wanted nothing more than to rush to their sides, but the mercenary was making that impossible. He shoved such thoughts far from him and forced himself to focus on his adversary. A mistake could cost him his life and the lives of his friends.

Athos gauged the man's fighting style and feinted to the right sidestepping to keep the man guessing. He dodged the man's powerful but ill-conceived lunge and almost succeeded in disarming him again, but his foe regained his balance and stepped back to avoid the blow.

Athos was so focused on the fight that nothing else seemed to exist. They were well matched, and the man obviously knew more about swordplay than his deceased friend. Athos took a step back trying to buy a bit of time so that he could ascertain the best way to attack. His opponent didn't give him the time. He flew at Athos, his blade slashing fast enough to demand all of the Musketeer's attention. Athos knew he would tire before the other man. He and his friends had pushed themselves to reach Lupiac by sleeping little on their route, and none of them had tried to sleep in well over a day and a half. Adrenaline and rage were all that kept him on his feet.

He moved back again and sidestepped a nasty lunge that would have ended him rather neatly. As he did, he saw Aramis and Porthos still hunched over d'Artagnan. The look on Porthos's face and the fact that d'Artagnan hadn't moved in any significant way from the last time he'd stolen a glance in his direction flooded Athos with dread. Fearing the boy was dead, Athos felt his guilt at his own inability to protect his friends become something else. He threw himself at his challenger, the roar of his rage making the man step back, wide-eyed, and fumble his defense as he nearly tripped.

The man regained his balance and tried to attack, lunging forward with such speed it would surely have pierced Athos through as Athos's own sword had done to the other mercenary. In a move as elegant as it was unlikely, Athos deflected the blow and plunged his own sword into the other man's belly.

Athos let the dying man lay where he fell and pulled his sword away. He raced to his friends with the bloody blade still in hand. "Aramis?" Athos asked, and the name held all the questions he could not bring himself to ask.

"He's alive, Athos. If we can clear this up quickly, I'd like to take him home."

Athos nodded and walked with all the dignity of his rank, and all the anger of a man who'd had to protect his friends from death, toward Tremblay.

"Monsieur, we have much to discuss." He spent a few moments explaining the papers they'd found and what they meant. He walked with Tremblay over to the heap that was Lemieux, still tied and lying where he'd landed when Aramis had kicked him from the horse. Still alive but in more than a little pain, Lemieux glared at the Musketeer, though his eyes still turned to scan the crowd as though searching for someone to help him.

Tremblay, heartened by the presence of the Musketeers, spit on the man. "I should have known the boy was innocent. He never confessed, did he?" He got no reply, but he didn't need one. He turned to Athos. "Monsieur, will you take him back to Paris to face charges? We have no facilities for hardened criminals here."

"No, of course you don't. Just facilities for a friend and neighbor whose innocence you should have believed and who certainly deserved better treatment than he received." He noted with satisfaction that the man was embarrassed. "I will lock him in d'Artagnan's cell for now. We won't be leaving until we're sure our friend will be all right. As for Lemieux, keep the door locked and don't speak to him. That way you should avoid any additional problems until we decide what to do with him."

That taken care of, he returned to Aramis and Porthos. Surprised to find d'Artagnan still not conscious, he looked to Aramis for explanation.

"I think he was stunned by the fall, though he may have lost consciousness before hitting the ground. He may also have received a few more bumps and bruises," Aramis admitted.

Athos's eyes latched onto the stark bruises rising around the boy's throat. D'Artagnan's paleness, a result of too long in a dark prison cell, made the mottled area stand out in a shocking, painful reminder of what he'd been through. Athos closed his eyes and allowed relief to wash over him. Opening them again, he found he had to swallow hard and clear his throat before he could speak clearly. "Can we move him?"

Aramis nodded. "We'll need a carriage."

Athos could have commandeered the carriage that d'Artagnan had been forced to stand upon while awaiting execution, but the thought only fanned the flames of his still simmering anger. He would see that wagon burn in a blaze before he willingly set d'Artagnan upon it again. Instead, his eyes settled on Madame Boucher, who still stood in the crowd, supported on one side by a man older than Athos, and most likely the woman's son. She would not have traveled on horseback. He approached the woman whose eyes were wide and filled with tears, and he greeted her with words much more suited to the situation than a shallow greeting.

"He lives," he said and watched her sag with relief into her son's arms. It was a short conversation that won them permission to accompany the woman and her son back to the farm with d'Artagnan and Aramis riding safely in the back of the wagon.

**The Musketeers**

Aramis climbed into the wagon first so as to direct Porthos and Athos as they gently eased the still unconscious d'Artagnan aboard. His attention was so focused on the young man, that he almost didn't realize that Porthos was handing him his saddlebag until the man called to him.

"Aramis."

"Thank you, Porthos," he said before digging through it for bandages and medicines.

"We'll keep the journey as fast as we can, but if you need us to speed up or slow down, just say so," Porthos cast worried eyes on the injured young man who'd not moved since being cut down from the tree.

Aramis nodded absently, and moments later the wagon began to move. His eyes moved along the young man first, assessing what might need the most immediate attention. Then he moves his hands along limbs and ribs looking for breaks, bruises and tender spots. He frowned as he catalogued more and more injuries. Most were minor, but there were more than he'd imagined, and some were rather severe.

D'Artagnan's wrists were raw from where the chains had bound him. The skin was red in places and weeping in others. Aramis shook his head. They seemed so much worse in daylight than they had in the small, dark cell.

He set to work with bandages and salves mentally noting what he would need to see to back at the farm. As he finished bandaging d'Artagnan's right wrist, he thought he heard a low moan. He glanced at the younger man's face and saw his eyes were now tightly clenched shut. He leaned down closer to his patient and whispered. "D'Artagnan? Are you awake?"

The only response was another low moan.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis tried again. "Try to answer me. Are you going to be ill?"

D'Artagnan blinked rapidly, clearly trying to open his eyes, but the direct sunlight was too much for him and he clenched them shut again and put a hand to his head. "D…dizzy." He managed to spit out the one word, moaning again and rocking.

"Stop the wagon!" Aramis shouted the words waving a hand in urgency. Monsieur Boucher pulled the wagon to an immediate stop and he and his mother swung around to look at Aramis. Madame Boucher's eyes were wide with fear and Athos and Porthos pulled their mounts to a stop their own expressions betraying the turmoil and fear Aramis's shout had stirred.

Aramis turned his full attention to d'Artagnan, whose hands still clenched his head and his eyes remained closed. "D'Artagnan? Will you open your eyes for me?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I know it's hard, but I think it's the motion of the wagon that was making you dizzy. Has it lessened?"

D'Artagnan slowly opened his eyes, but, as he nodded, he clenched them shut again. A moment later they flew open and he threw himself awkwardly to his side as his stomach finally rebelling at all he'd been through that day. With nothing to expel, he struggled against the dry heaves unable to keep himself from voicing the short, soft moans of misery between bouts.

"Breathe deeply," Aramis instructed as he held the young man through the worst of it. D'Artagnan's weakened muscles could barely hold him upright, and they shook alarmingly. Without Aramis's support, he undoubtedly would be prostrate. When the heaves slowed, Aramis offered d'Artagnan a bit of water, and that seemed to steady him. He blinked his eyes and finally opened them.

Aramis grinned in something close to relief, though he was still apprehensive about the young man's condition. "There you are!" He smiled and put down the water. "Now, please answer me truthfully and carefully. You're dizzy, yes?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan croaked, his voice sounding both soft and rough.

"It's a bit better, now though, isn't it?"

D'Artagnan nodded, but the movement caused him to moan once more and clench his eyes shut.

"Ah, try not to move your head like that, all right?" When d'Artagnan opened his eyes once more, Aramis smiled again. "Have a bit more water." As d'Artagnan drank, Athos and Porthos could stay silent no longer.

"Well?" asked Porthos.

"What's happened?" asked Athos.

Aramis glanced at his friends and realized they felt much as he did about the young Gascon. What had caused the boy to become so important to all of them so quickly he'd never be able to explain. He couldn't say that he had ever imagined anything was missing from their small group before they'd met d'Artagnan, but he also couldn't say that it felt strange or unfamiliar or in any way odd to have him with them. It was as if he had stepped into their lives and they had collectively thought, 'ah, there you are,' as though they'd been expecting him, waiting for him all along.

"I think the movement of the wagon is likely more motion than he's experienced in a long time. By his own admission, he was in that cell for weeks with little food or water as far as I can tell. You can see that much by looking at him. It's likely the movement was too much for him once you factor in the injuries, stress, anxiety, and lack of basic necessities. We need to take it slowly. His body hasn't adjusted to the change."

"That why 'e's squintin', coverin' 'is face?" Porthos asked.

Aramis turned to look. D'Artagnan was indeed, hiding his eyes from the sun. He also seemed less than aware of the conversation they were having about him. Aramis sighed. "It was a dark cell. He hasn't seen daylight in weeks. His eyes will adjust." He looked at his friends. "It will just take time."

"How slow should we take it, Aramis?" Athos asked.

"Take it at a walk—a slow walk. I'll let you know if we can go any faster."

Athos nodded and moved to the front of the wagon to confer with Monsieur Boucher. The man and his mother had been peering back anxiously. Madame Boucher looked as though she expected to be told d'Artagnan had died. Her relief was apparent even from Aramis's position.

Porthos smiled. "She's likely to mother 'im for a bit."

Aramis returned the smile. "I'd imagine so." He glanced at d'Artagnan, his heart breaking at the pitiful sight. "Truthfully, he could use some mothering."

They were soon moving again, albeit at a much slower speed, but Aramis was able to increase their speed almost to a cantor when they were nearly to the farm.

The Musketeers moved with an efficiency born of their long association, and a care born of their brotherhood as they moved d'Artagnan into the house and safely to his room. Aramis ignored everyone else and couldn't remember bidding farewell to the Bouchers. He hoped he hadn't been rude, but he could not worry about that now. He was sure they would understand. His attention was entirely on d'Artagnan. He bathed the boy, wrapped and treated his wounds, and brewed a tea he was sure would help fight the dizziness and help steady his stomach enough that he could begin to eat.

Athos and Porthos stood nearby hovering by the doorway so as not to get in the way, yet close enough to help and fetch things if Aramis required it. After a short time, however, Aramis chased them out. He'd offered little explanation, and he could see they'd both been inclined to argue, but were too accustomed to heeding his words where the health of a fallen comrade was concerned.

D'Artagnan slept through most of his ministrations, which he believed to be for the best. The pain, he was sure the boy would have handled, but the embarrassment was something else. He was provincial in his upbringing, and Aramis doubted he would have been happy with the attention.

When Aramis had done all he could, he sat back in a chair by the bedside. He checked d'Artagnan for fever not really expecting to find any. The injuries were not severe. Mangled wrists, a few bumps to the head, a shallow cut on his back…no, it wasn't injury that caused Aramis to worry. It was the lack of food and water, the weeks of darkness, the loss of hope. The boy had finally been able to send for the Musketeers, and his only thought had been that they would be with him when he died. Aramis knew this meant he'd been well down the road to despair. Perhaps he'd been far enough along to wallow in it.

Aramis knew despair. He'd lived it. He visited it from time to time in the dark corners of his mind. It's presence in his life proved to him he was unworthy of the clerics robes he once imagined he might wear. He had pleaded with God often to be allowed to live his days without ever feeling it again. God, in his wisdom, had sent him brothers. It was only Athos and Porthos who could pull him from its depths. It was what he and Porthos often tried to do for Athos, and, if he examined it carefully enough, it was likely what had spawned the annual birthday celebration for Porthos…hiding his despair at not knowing from whence he'd come amidst the raucous celebration and the shooting of melons.

If he were honest with himself, meeting d'Artagnan had been much the same. The young man had come to them full of vengeance and grief, but his quick understanding that Athos was an honorable man had offered both Aramis and Porthos enough hope to keep them from despair in the search to prove Athos's innocence.

Despair was a powerful emotion, and Aramis would not be able to declare the Gascon farmer on the road to recovery until he knew the state of his mind. Athos, however, had painted a picture he could not reconcile to his own recollections of the boy. As they'd hunted for Lemieux, he'd related d'Artagnan's condition when he'd found the youth in his cell, feral, raging and about to murder Marcel Lambert. Self-defense, it surely was, or had at least started as, but to be driven to that…it was not something he could imagine of the passionate, honorable boy who'd been driven to revenge for the love of his father, and driven to clear the name of the man he'd accused of murder in nearly the same breath.

He wasn't sure what he expected, nor how long he could delay going out to report on the boy's condition to his anxious friends. He had learned long ago to heed his own instincts, however, and right now, his instincts told him he had to be here by d'Artagnan's bedside.

It was barely thirty minutes later when he first heard it.

D'Artagnan moved and a low sound escaped him. It wasn't quite the sound he'd uttered in the wagon when he'd been dizzy. This was something else. Aramis sat up straight and moved to the edge of the chair. His eyes were intent on the sleeping youth. He moved again, this time thrashing a bit, and before Aramis could decide what to do, d'Artagnan was sitting up, eyes wide, pleading with his father.

"Father, please…please…"

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis called moving closer and taking the boy by the shoulders. "Wake up! It's a dream! You're dreaming. You're fine, now, safe at home!" Aramis looked desperately into the young man's eyes trying to see the moment of clarity, of awareness, when he would be himself again.

D'Artagnan was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, and suddenly, there it was, that spark in his eyes, the realization of where he was and his hands came up to grab at Aramis's arms in desperation at first and then in gratitude as his head hung down in embarrassment.

"No need to hide from it, d'Artagnan. Soldiers and nightmares go hand in hand." He said the words with just enough of a hint of trepidation as images of a snow-covered wood flitted through his mind, that d'Artagnan's head snapped up and he looked the Musketeer marksman in the eyes. Seeing, Aramis was sure, that the Musketeer had endured his fair share of such dreams, d'Artagnan still would not allow the excuse to stand. "I…I'm not…a soldier," d'Artagnan whispered.

"You have fought a few battles, though, have you not?" He waited long enough that d'Artagnan was forced to nod in somewhat reluctant agreement. "After what you have been through these past weeks, d'Artagnan, it's no wonder your dreams have turned on you. The loss of your father…the weeks in a cell accused of a crime you did not commit…"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "It was neither my father's death, nor the cell I dreamt of," he admitted.

Aramis was surprised for a moment. Then he realized what it must have been. "The tree…hanging like that couldn't have been an easy thing to bear..." He cut himself off as d'Artagnan again shook his head.

"Not the tree?" Aramis asked.

"No."

"Then what was it…if you don't mind my asking," Aramis could not hide his surprise.

D'Artagnan's head hung again, his hair, loose and long—much longer than it had been at Alexandre's funeral—hiding his face. He mumbled something Aramis could not catch.

"What was that?"

D'Artagnan looked up at Aramis and suddenly he looked fragile and unreasonably young. "Gaudet. I dreamed of Gaudet. K-killing him. I have done so often since my…incarceration. My f…father…he appeared by my side as Gaudet died…he…he was not happy. He would never have approved of vengeance…but this time…"

Aramis blinked in consternation when the boy paused. Gaudet. To Aramis, that was old news. Over and done and good riddance, as he was sure Porthos would say. D'Artagnan, however, could not so easily dismiss it.

Aramis's heart broke for the boy. To have killed someone, likely the first time he'd ever done someone real harm, and to have that hanging over your head while dealing with the grief of losing a loved one as well as fear, anger, and panic while awaiting his own death…and to bear it all alone. All the while, certain his father would disapprove of what he'd done, d'Artagnan had likely tortured himself for somehow failing the man who meant so much to him.

"This time it was different?" Aramis asked, knowing full well how even familiar dreams could become something new and terrifying given the right circumstances.

D'Artagnan nodded, looking so miserable in the process that Aramis had to push for answers. "What happened, d'Artagnan?"

"This time, he was there. My father, after I killed Gaudet, stood by and watched me hang for it. He would not forgive me. He said I deserved to die." His voice, already ragged and broken, broke further on the last few words.

Aramis knew the boy had been through a lot, but he also knew that, had he not been accused of murder, he might never have equated his actions against Gaudet with the crime against Monsieur Lambert. The lad had tortured himself with these thoughts waking and sleeping for who knew how long?

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, softly, his eyes holding the boy's like a flame drew a moth, "What you did with Gaudet…that was not vengeance, nor was it murder. That was self-defense. You gave up on vengeance when you withdrew. He forced your hand. Whether he preferred your sword to the hangman's noose…" he cursed himself for putting it that way when d'Artagnan's eyes widened.

"It was what I said. I told him he didn't deserve an honorable death…that he would hang…"

Aramis shook his head. "No, it was not your fault. It was his choice. He thought he would kill you and escape. You did not choose to kill him. You chose to defend yourself. You did it without thought, correct? You reacted to my shout, your instincts with a blade…you fought unconsciously to save yourself and to protect those who fought with you. Your father would have no reason to be unforgiving. He would not be anything but proud. You fought bravely and honorably."

D'Artagnan seemed to search Aramis's eyes. His need to believe the Musketeer was obvious. Aramis held his gaze, willing the boy to believe him for he'd meant what he'd said. Somehow, the thought that the fight with Gaudet might have ended with d'Artagnan dead and Gaudet escaping was not one Aramis liked to entertain.

After a moment, d'Artagnan nodded, and a shadow of a smile colored his still pale face. Aramis returned the smile and then checked his bandages. "Rest now, d'Artagnan. I'm going to tell your worried friends that you're well."

D'Artagnan settled down against the pillow and Aramis almost missed the surprised, whispered, and yet somehow satisfied and pleased reply. "Friends…"


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and who have stayed with this story from the beginning. This is the final chapter, and I find it's a bit longer than the others. There were a lot of loose ends to tie up and I wanted all of the boys to have a bit of spotlight and say what needed saying. They had a lot to say. I do plan to continue writing in this fandom, so watch for more in the future. Please read and review. I'd really appreciate it.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 10

Warmth and Brotherhood

**The Musketeers**

Madame Boucher had wept. She had hurried across the field to see d'Artagnan while her son and Athos tried to stop her. Seeing him in that state wasn't something Porthos would have wished for her. She hovered as they moved the unconscious young man to the wagon. She rode with her son, but her attention was on every word she could hear Aramis utter in the back of the wagon. Aramis mostly worked in silence, but on occasion, if you listened you could hear his entreaties to d'Artagan to awake or to "hold on" or to "stay with me" and on occasion those entreaties sounded desperate.

Porthos spoke loudly to her distracting her from what little she could hear with stories that had her laughing despite her worry.

Once back at d'Artagnan's farm, Aramis had left Porthos to make vague promises about letting her know how he was and to bring her to see him when he was up for visitors. Her son bustled her home amidst her promises that she would return soon and bring d'Artagnan his favorite foods.

He and Athos had waited by the door to d'Artagnan's room fetching things, holding things whenever Aramis asked, but he'd kicked them out soon enough and sequestered himself away with the injured youth.

Now, as Porthos waited for Aramis to let them know how the boy was, he took a moment to study Athos. The man was distraught. That was easy to see. He looked down. He looked around the room, but his gaze never fell on anything for more than a few moments. Porthos sighed. The man was both a mystery and as obvious as a shining jewel in a pigpen.

He moved toward Athos who stood staring at the door to d'Artagnan's room and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We got to him in time."

Athos didn't bother to look at Porthos. "He was hung." He spoke in a whisper. "That will stay with him. Even should he recover…"

Athos paused and Porthos could see him swallowing rapidly as though trying to force something down so he could continue. "Should he recover, this will not disappear."

Porthos's eyes narrowed. "This ain't your fault, you know that, right?" When Athos didn't reply, Porthos sighed. "Athos, we came here to 'elp. We're helpin'. If we 'adn't come at all, 'e'd be dead now."

To his surprise, Athos paled at the words and put a hand out to catch the wall. His head hung down, his eyes closed and he drew in deep breath after deep breath.

"Oi, what's wrong?" Porthos asked.

"It was close, Porthos. He nearly died. We were very nearly too late, and the boy would have paid for that with his life."

Porthos watched Athos. He looked haunted. His eyes were wide and he kept turning his gaze back to the door behind which Armis was treating d'Artagnan. Athos had always been the most serious of the Inseparables. His mood was always in need of lightening, and there were times his melancholy threatened to steal him away as fast as a child from the court of miracles could pick a pocket. This was different.

Porthos's eyes narrowed as he stared at his friend. Athos was shaken. He was almost as shaken as he had been when the two of them had ridden to Savoy five years ago to find Aramis against all orders and any hint of sweet reason. Porthos's desperation had been mirrored in Athos's eyes then, and Athos had grown more and more frantic. They'd never spoken of it, but Porthos was an observer. A childhood like his lent itself to that. He'd observed Athos over the years, and while an injury to any soldier in the regiment caused concern, an injury to Aramis or to himself, would transform Athos into an avenging angel, one who wouldn't rest until those over whom he worried were safe and mended and those responsible were punished.

When, Porthos wondered, had Athos begun to include d'Artagnan among people for whom he would become that avenging angel?

Before he could say a word, Aramis appeared. Athos stood and he and Porthos both rounded on the Musketeer.

"How is he?"

"Will he be all right?

They spoke over each other. Aramis held up a hand. "He'll be fine. He has a nasty bump on the head, so I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days. He's strained some of the muscles in his back and stomach in the…while…" He sighed and rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "There may be a more delicate way to say it, but I am too tired to think of it. He strained himself while he hung from that tree. I don't think anything's torn, but there are some serious strains. Also, bruises, scrapes…and of course, he is dreadfully malnourished and dehydrated. Also, the rope was tight." He gestured to his own throat to indicate where he meant. "He's bruised, a bit hoarse, but there shouldn't be any lasting affects." He turned to Porthos with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You saved him, my friend. If you hadn't gotten beneath him…"

"Yeah, and if you hadn't shot that rope! What a shot!" Porthos laughed with relief.

"You're both right. Aramis, it was a hell of a shot, which, Porthos, wouldn't have been in time to save him had you not gotten beneath him." Athos spoke softly, his eyes were closed and small tremors wracked his body.

Aramis glanced at Porthos who shrugged. "Are you all right, Athos?" Aramis asked.

"I'm fine. Is he awake? May I see him?"

Aramis nodded. "He's bone weary, but I think you can speak to him."

Athos nodded and headed for d'Artagnan's room.

Aramis and Porthos watched him go, and once he was gone from view, Aramis turned to Porthos. "What's going on?"

Porthos shrugged. "He's in a mood. Must be blaming himself for something."

"For what? We saved d'Artagnan." Aramis insisted.

"He went on about him having hung, that this won't go away. I don't know what's got into him." Porthos changed the subject. "Is d'Artagnan really all right?"

Aramis nodded. "His injuries will heal. As for being all right, well, I don't know about that."

"What? Why?"

"He's been through a lot. He's got a lot to put behind him. Not the least of which being that his entire town was willing, perhaps anxious, to see him hang." Aramis shook his head and made a quick sign of the cross. "After his father's death, what might that do to him?"

Porthos considered that. Aramis was right. The boy likely had a lot to consider and most of it would require a recovery period. To be so utterly abandoned shortly after losing so much…the big Musketeer shook his head. It took less than what d'Artagnan had endured to send some men to the Court of Miracles…and others to the Bastille.

"They've been in there awhile." Porthos said at last as he took a seat.

"Yes," Aramis agreed, sitting beside him. "But then d'Artagnan has little choice."

"Should we go in?" Porthos asked.

Aramis considered this. "I think we should leave them alone." He glanced at Porthos with a smile playing on his lips.

Porthos smiled back. "Yeah, they're good for each other." Porthos realized the truth of that as he said it.

**The Musketeers**

Athos stepped through the doorway to D'Artagnan's room surprised, despite what Aramis said, to find D'Artagnan awake if not entirely alert.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said the name softly. If d'Artagnan didn't respond, he'd leave the boy to rest.

"Athos," d'Artagnan croaked.

Athos reached for the pitcher of water by the bedside table and poured a cup for d'Artagnan, helping him hold it steady as he took the smallest of sips.

"How are you?" Athos asked then cursed himself silently for the stupidity of the question.

D'Artagnan nodded, but wouldn't look him in the eye.

Athos tried again. He had to keep the boy focused on what was here and what was real and not let him lose himself in dark memories. Dark memories could only lead to madness. "D'Artagnan, how are you?"

"I honestly don't know." He looked up into Athos's face. "I…am having a little trouble believing that it's over. That I'm here. That I've lived past dawn. I…" he broke off and rubbed at his neck. Athos followed the hands and couldn't help but stare at the bruising. "I'm alive, and I really don't know how I should feel about that."

His answer disturbed Athos more than he could say. Understandable though it was, Athos would have expected some mention of being relived or happy to be alive…but then again, Athos probably wouldn't have described living through this nightmare in terms any different from the ones d'Artagnan had used.

"You are alive. That 's enough for now. You can work out how you feel about it later." Athos wanted to say more. He wanted to share with the boy the joy he felt at seeing him alive and breathing and not in a jail cell. Too much time alone staring into the bottom of a wine glass had apparently rendered him unable to speak such things aloud, or perhaps it had merely been too long since he'd felt that kind of joy.

To his surprise, d'Artagnan attempted a small smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was an attempt, and for some reason Athos found a bit more joy in that.

"I need to thank you. You and Aramis and Porthos…"

Athos held out a hand to forestall any more such talk. "You don't need to thank us. We could hardly have done any differently."

"You came. I sent word to you little daring to believe you would even arrive in time to see me hang, and instead you saved my life. I'm grateful." D'Artagnan looked away, embarrassed by something though Athos could not see what that might be.

"What is it?" he asked as he sat on a chair that stood by the bedside.

"I…don't…" he cleared his throat. "I tried to kill you, when we met, and you so readily put that aside." He turned to look Athos in the eye, and the Musketeer could see confusion, admiration, and a fierce determination to…to what?

Athos sighed. "I have been where you are. I lost my family. Everyone. I was as alone as you are."

"And now?" D'Artagnan prompted.

Athos could see the need to know, the desire to be told that there was a way out of this pain.

"And now," Athos replied, "Now, I'm not." He moved his head slightly to indicate the other room where they both could hear that Aramis and Porthos were talking quietly, and, in a gesture he would have halted if he'd given it any thought at all, he reached out a hand to rest it lightly on the youth's shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and he considered this. He really, truly considered it. With a slight nod, and a smile that came a bit closer to his eyes, d'Artagnan held out his hand. "Thank you, Athos. I am grateful."

As Athos took his hand, he realized d'Artagnan was talking about more than saving him from hanging

**The Musketeers**

That evening, after much wine and talk, the Musketeers retired to their rooms. Exhaustion claimed all of them quickly. It had been an indescribably tiring ride from Paris, and things had only gotten more out of control after their arrival in Lupiac.

Porthos, unlike his friends, was a light sleeper. Life in the Court had taught him the talent of sleeping wherever he found a place or the time, but it had also left him most likely to wake with the slightest noise. Bad things happened to sound sleepers.

It took him several moments to determine where he was and what had wakened him. Aramis was asleep on the bed, while he'd insisted on taking the small, nearby sofa. The soft, reassuring sound of Aramis's breathing quieted his racing heart and made him listen more intently to identify what had disturbed him.

There, a slight patter of rain against the roof. It was drizzling. Relieved it was nothing serious, he settled down to go back to sleep. It was then he heard another sound. It was faint. Distant. It was the sort of sound someone makes when they are trying to make no sound at all. Pacing. It was a soft patter of bare feet and creaky floorboards. He listened for a moment or two, not sure what to do. It was, of course, d'Artagnan. Aramis was asleep a few feet from him and he knew Athos's tread well enough to identify it blindfolded, which he'd done on more than one occasion. D'Artagnan shouldn't be out of bed. He was still recovering.

His sleepy brain flashed through the thoughts again and again trying to make a connection it knew must be there. D'Artagnan. Pacing. Likely ill or hurting. Drizzling…

_Damn._

Porthos eased himself from the sofa and crept toward the door. He opened it and moved with the skill and stealth of a seasoned soldier toward d'Artagnan's room. He knocked softly as he opened the door not wanting to startle the boy too badly.

"D'Artagnan?" He whispered as he peered around the door into the room. D'Artagnan stood frozen like a startled deer, his eyes wide and staring at Porthos. The boy's arms were wrapped around himself as though he were literally trying to hold himself together. Porthos held up his hands. "I heard you. Did you need something? Are you all right?" He knew the boy wasn't, but he had to give him a chance to admit it and to accept his silent offer of help.

"I'm fi…" He stopped mid-word and cleared his throat. "I'm…not myself." A clap of thunder and flash of lightning underscored the words and made him jump, his head turning toward the window where they could both see the light drizzle had become a deluge.

Porthos took his admission of not being himself as a good sign. He closed the door behind him and crossed the room to stand by the boy's side. Without explaining himself, he helped d'Artagnan get back to bed. Once he was settled, Porthos looked him in the eye. Instead of his usual amusement, he let d'Artagnan see his concern. "Madame Bucher told us…'ow your mother died."

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise. "She did?"

"Yeah, and, well, we…or Athos really…put that together with what we know of the night your father died…d'Artagnan, it's all right. Don't be embarrassed about this. It's early days yet. You never had time to mourn properly, and with what you've been through…"

"You sound like Aramis," d'Artagnan admitted, his gaze falling to his lap.

"Well, we've known each other a long time." Porthos frowned. A thought had occurred to him and he had to ask. "D'Artagnan, you were in prison for weeks. They weren't dry weeks. How did you deal with storms while locked in that cell?"

D'Artagnan didn't answer right away. He glanced up at Porthos through the curtain of his hair for a moment, and then he dropped his gaze again before answering. His reply was so soft that Porthos missed it.

Porthos shook his head with a smile. "You know I didn't hear that."

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "I screamed."

_He hated storms after that. He would hide under tables, chairs, in barns, and he would scream. Oh, he would scream._

Madame Boucher's words rang through his head, and hearing d'Artagnan's soft, embarrassed echo of them stole the remains of the smile from his face and made his heart skip a beat. The words, the tone—all so matter-of-fact—belied the emotion Porthos knew they hid.

"Why…" Porthos had to clear his throat to continue. "Why aren't you screamin' now?"

"In that cell," d'Artagnan confessed, not yet looking at Porthos. "I didn't care who heard. I didn't care if I screamed until I passed out. Here…" he looked up now. "You have all done so much for me. You saved me. You are all exhausted because of it. I couldn't repay that by burdening you with my…_weakness_."

That last word, imbued with bitterness and self-loathing, conveyed more meaning than d'Artagnan had intended. Porthos shook his head, his expression softened, and he reached out a hand placing it gently on d'Artagnan's shoulder. He shook his head sadly as he spoke.

"You can't think that way, lad. It ain't weakness to feel loss. You just have a…" he searched for a word knowing Aramis or Athos would know just what to say. He sighed. "You just have a more vivid reminder of your loss than most." He leaned forward. "All of us have things we can't bear. We all avoid them in some way." He thought of Aramis and his reactions to snow in March. He thought of Athos and his penchant for wine nearly every evening, but somehow more so in the spring when flowers were beginning to bloom. He thought of himself and how he had avoided the Court of Miracles since turning his back on his former way of life.

"You need to find a way to cope until you can watch rain fall again without bein' reminded of what you've lost."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I…had barely controlled it before my father was murdered. I had learned to get through a storm but not how to keep the memories from tormenting me."

"What did you do before your father died?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "He'd talk to me. Distract me from my thoughts." He flinched as the thunder and lightning came again. His body trembling for a moment or two as he suppressed the urge to scream.

Porthos smiled. "Well, if that's the case, I think you'll find I'm quite the talker!" Porthos smiled and launched into story after story of his escapades in Paris. He told d'Artagnan of his first days as a recruit, of the first time he cheated a man at cards and got away with it, of the time he'd come to the aid of a young woman accosted by robbers, and of the first and only time he'd bested Athos with a sword and how 'it was more luck than skill, but don't tell Athos that…'

If the rain fell more furiously, Porthos spoke louder. If the lightning flashed, Porthos reached out a hand to turn d'Artagnan's head away from the window. If the thunder crashed loud enough to wake the dead, he'd put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeeze, all without missing a beat in any of his tales.

Eventually, the lateness of the hour, the drone of the storm, and the exhaustion he'd fought against lulled d'Artagnan into a light slumber. Porthos continued to speak, though in a softer tone hoping d'Artagnan would find the rest he so desperately needed. Only when the drizzle had stopped entirely, sometime near dawn, and only after checking to be sure d'Artagnan was soundly sleeping, did Porthos, stand, stretch, and head back to his room.

He'd barely settled beneath his blanket before he, too, was asleep.

**The Musketeers**

Cardinal Richelieu moves swiftly through the courtyard towards his office. There was much to do before he met with the King this evening. His mind raced through his own plans and how he could best keep them from the monarch. What the King didn't know would fill a cathedral, and the Cardinal added to that almost daily.

He entered his office, leaving his two guards at the door. Once inside, he was more than shocked at what he saw. He was long-practiced, however, in keeping surprise off his face.

"Should you not be in Lupiac with Lemeiux?" He put the question to the man who leaned against the front of his desk as though he had every right to be there.

"Lemeiux will fail. He's not good at what he does."

"And you are here to tell me how good at it you are." It was not a question, and a knowing smile passed over the Cardinal's face.

The man smiled in return. "I can collect taxes and more in Lupiac and cow the people into obeying every whim."

"Lemieux makes sure the Crown gets its cut," the Cardinal reminded him.

"You mean your cut. Lemieux fumbled with that man you had Gaudet kill. He has a son who knows all about it."

The Cardinal knew of the young Gascon farm boy come to Paris bent on revenge, but he thought the matter over.

"Lemieux has taken steps to remove the boy from this life, but he will not be able to stem the tide of ill feelings. He banks too much on the good will of those he steals from. He likes that they think he's doing what is 'right and proper' while he robs them blind and they thank him for it." The man spat on the floor to indicate what he thought of things that were 'right and proper' and the Cardinal glared at him.

The Cardinal gestured at the damp spot on the floor. "This is not a barnyard." He crossed the room and walked around his desk. Satisfied when the intruder swiveled to keep him in his sight, the Cardinal continued to glare at the man. "I have no one else to send, so Lupiac is yours if you can continue sending the money as Lemieux has, but I warn you that I will see you dead if you cross me."

The man laughed at the Cardinal and moved toward the door. He spoke barely keeping his own distrust of the Cardinal in check. "Just see that _you_ don't cross _me_."

The Cardinal waited a beat and when the man was nearly at the door, he spoke. "You'd do well to remember that it was I who saved you from hanging some time ago. I can put you back in the noose if I see no value in our association, LeBarge."

LeBarge snarled, but left the Cardinal without another word.

**The Musketeers**

It was some days before d'Artagnan could be said to be healing. The Musketeers had to consider getting back to Paris. They had a ten-day ride ahead of them, and though he was an understanding captain, Treville could only be so tolerant of their long absence. Aramis suggested Athos and Porthos ride on without him so that he could remain behind to care for D'Artagnan until he was well on his way to recovery.

Athos knew it was the best solution, but he wasn't sure how much time he could buy for Aramis. Again, Treville's patience was not unlimited.

The solution presented itself from an unexpected source several days after d'Artagnan's failed hanging.

The Lambert brothers arrived with Madame Boucher. The Lamberts, all three, set to work around the home and farm while Madame Boucher, bearing pots full of prepared food, as well as bags full of preserved food, got to work in the kitchen.

As she puttered around putting pots on to simmer and stocking the pantry, she explained to the Musketeers that she would be staying until d'Artagnan was well. D'Artagnan had risen from bed and joined her insisting that he would be fine on his own, but Athos could see his heart wasn't in the argument. The Musketeer couldn't blame him. After what he'd been through, it was natural enough to wish for a time to be cared for, even cosseted.

Madame Boucher didn't bother arguing. She went about her business in the kitchen putting things away and preparing food to be cooked, agreeing with anything d'Artagnan said, but doing as she pleased regardless.

Finally, realizing she was paying no attention to him, d'Artagnan addressed the other question. "What about the Lamberts? Why have they come?"

Marcel had come in by that time and heard the question. "We have to atone for what we did somehow. We believed the worst of you. Yes, we were led to believe it, but we should have realized you wouldn't behave that way." He smiled as one does at a memory. "Your father went on and on about honor. You'd never have disregarded his teaching so thoroughly."

"So…you plan to work on my farm? What about yours."

"We'll work long enough for you to get back on your feet. You'll need help to keep things going without both you and your father." He shrugged. "As I said, we have much to set right."

D'Artagnan was reluctant to accept any help at all, but Athos could see that he saw the sense in this. Finally, he drew himself up and held out his hand. "Thank you."

That evening, they had a feast. A celebration of sorts grew and grew, and, before anyone had realized it, most of the townspeople had arrived, some bearing covered dishes, cakes, breads, or bottles of wine. Some had come with tables and chairs and some had come bearing lanterns, or preserved food, knowing that d'Artagnan had spent a month imprisoned and likely had little available for the coming months before the farm began to yield it's bounty.

Athos, as was his wont, had little to say. The Lamberts had given him and the other Musketeers a wide berth, wary of their reactions to them being in d'Artagnan's house.

After the feasting, the crowd continued to drink and tell tales of the days past. They hooted with delight describing how the Musketeers had ridden to d'Artagnan's rescue. Porthos's leap from his saddle, Aramis's amazingly accurate shot, and Athos's dueling two men at once were told again and again.

D'Artagnan took it all in having seen none of it. He began to put it all together…connect it to what he'd heard and felt while he'd hung from the rope.

Athos was watching when the boy paled and rubbed a hand across the bruises at his throat. He saw d'Artagnan rise and excuse himself and make his way on shaky legs to the door. Athos discreetly followed.

Outside, d'Artagnan was doubled over. He took deep breaths one arm across his own stomach, and one hand clutching at a post.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos asked softly.

D'Artagnan didn't answer right away. He took two or three steadying breaths, and stood, turning to face the Musketeer.

"Are you well?" Athos asked concern plain on a face that usually gave away nothing he didn't intend it to.

"I…it was warm in there. I needed a breath."

Athos nodded and stepped a bit closer. His hand moved to d'Artagnan's collar and he peered at the bruises. "I am sorry you had to suffer that." His voice was soft and infused with sorrow.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "You had nothing to do with that. You saved me. You, Porthos, and Aramis." He shook his head again. "I had no idea what you went through. Porthos could have been killed leaping from his horse like that."

"A Musketeer learns how to fall properly, but his strength is a marvel." Athos admitted.

"Aramis's shot…that's unnaturally accurate. How did he manage to sever a rope moving at that speed?"

"Ah, that I grant you is hard to explain. Aramis's aim has always been truly remarkable, even miraculous."

"And you…those men were huge, and skilled. You killed them so easily."

"No," Athos shook his head this time. "Never easily. Killing is never an easy thing. Regardless of how the tales make it sound, killing is a last resort. As for my skill with a blade, I must confess I am rather good with a sword."

"Good?" Porthos voice, tinged with incredulity, called from behind them. "Don't let 'im fool you. 'e's the best in the regiment."

"Yes," Aramis agreed. "Almost as good as I am with a musket. A bit better than you are at hand to hand combat."

"Oi!" Porthos yelled, cuffing Aramis lightly on the back of the head.

Athos's eyes danced in delight at his friends' antics, though he fell short of actually smiling. He turned his attention back to d'Artagnan. "The party, it was too much for you." He said it softly, but they all heard it.

"I must confess to being more than a bit overwhelmed," d'Artagnan said as he leaned against the post he'd held to a moment before.

"There's no shame in that." Porthos looked grave.

"None at all," Aramis agreed.

"You've had much to endure of late. It will take some time to adjust," Athos added.

"It is only thanks to all of you…"

"None of that!" Porthos shouted.

"Yes, no thanks necessary." Aramis turned to Porthos. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "…we _are_ getting rather good at these last minute rescues."

Athos smiled this time. "I would prefer, Aramis, that in future we make it a bit less last minute."

**The Musketeers**

The celebration went on and on. It seemed that every few minutes another neighbor was stopping by with gifts of food or wine. Others were offering to help with the farming, chores and repairs around the house, and anything else d'Artagnan might not feel up to completing on his own.

D'Artagnan thanked them all, pleaded with them to stay and sample Madame Boucber's food or indeed any of the other dishes donated to the cause by the other women of Lupiac. He spoke to Monsieur Tremblay, who had apologized profusely, almost in tears, at having sided with Lemieux against d'Artagnan. He invoked Alexandre and swore he'd make it up to d'Artagnan somehow. D'Artagnan had smiled at him, thanked him sincerely, and led him to the buffet table pleading with him to eat his fill. He did much the same for the rest of the guests, whether they apologized or not.

He sampled whatever treats the various guests pressed upon him, praising the culinary expertise of each. He toasted to his father, to his freedom, to his Musketeer friends, and to Madame Boucher's skill in the kitchen whenever someone raised a glass and looked in his direction. He listened to tale after tale, including tales of the "old days" when his father had been young, when he had been young, and retellings of the Musketeers' prowess in the short hours they'd been in Lupiac before proving d'Artagnan's innocence.

Athos watched it all, and more than once suggested to his young friend that perhaps it was time for a rest. He acquiesced each time d'Artagnan demurred, but warned his friend, that he couldn't keep up this pace all day and all night. It was only because the boy seemed in need of such a celebration that Athos let it continue.

As Athos watched, d'Artagnan, in the midst of a conversation with Monsieur Tremblay and Madame Boucher, put a hand to his head. He started to rise from his chair, faltered, righted himself, and finally stood taking a shaky step towards the kitchen. Athos followed.

In the kitchen, d'Artagnan leaned heavily on the table a hand once again massaging his temples while the arm supporting him on the tabletop trembled almost unnoticeably. Almost.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said softly.

The Gascon turned to face him trying to hide his momentary infirmity. "Athos, can I get you something," he said as he stood away from the table and endeavored to appear carefree and healthy.

Athos shook his head. "D'Artagnan, I think you've done enough hosting for the day. Come. I'll help you to your room." To Athos's surprise, d'Artagnan actually took a step backwards.

"No, I'm fine," he insisted.

Athos frowned. "You most certainly are not fine. Come." He stepped closer and put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Athos, please…" he looked away. "Yes, you're right, but please let me make my way to my room without your help. The guests…I don't want them…I mean…I can't…" He gave up and looked down, embarrassed.

Athos understood even without the help of complete sentences. These people were his friends. They had known him all his life, and had recently abandoned him. He did not want to appear weak in their eyes.

"A discreet withdrawal, then," Athos said. He opened the door and led d'Artagnan out. Then he watched as the boy joined in a conversation here, excused himself to check on drinks there, joined in the laughter at some joke one of the Lamberts had made, and, inside of a quarter of an hour had made his way to his room.

Athos waited a moment or two before following. He stopped on his way for a quiet word with Porthos. The large Musketeer had already guessed something was happening.

"He all right?" Porthos nodded his head in the direction of d'Artagnan's room.

Athos nodded. "A bit worse for wear, but he's agreed to rest. Keep the guests distracted. I don't want him trying to come back out here to be polite to people who would have watched him hang."

Porthos frowned and his eyes glinted with a complex array of emotions. Athos knew he should have been more discreet. Porthos didn't need a reminder of what these people had done. In his eyes, only Madame Boucher had any right to be here celebrating. He knew Porthos well enough to know he tolerated the others present only because they were literally not important in his eyes. They were beneath his notice because of how they'd behaved towards d'Artagnan. He would do as Athos asked now for d'Artagnan's sake.

With a curt nod, Porthos turned and put a big grin on his face as he mingled with the villagers and kept them distracted from the fact that d'Artagnan was missing.

Athos retreated to d'Artagnan's room. When he entered, he saw the young man sitting on his bed. His head hung down. His eyes were closed. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands dangled as though he had no strength in them. Athos sighed.

"Let's get you settled," Athos suggested as he moved closer to the Gascon's bedside.

"I'm fi…"

"Don't say it. Let me help you." Athos said softly.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes in surprised and nodded in agreement.

Athos turned his attention to d'Artagnan's boots. Pulling those off, he reached up and loosened the fastenings on his shirt, carefully easing it off his shoulders. He next examined the bandage across d'Artangnan's back, sitting down beside him and reaching to unwrap the linen.

"Can we leave it for now?" D'Artagnan asked, and there was such exhaustion in his voice that Athos immediately agreed.

He drew back the blankets and carefully assisted d'Artagnan in climbing into the bed before sitting again. "Aramis will have something to say about this. You're still wearing your trousers and your bandage does need changing."

D'Artagnan offered a tired smile. "He can swear at me later. I just need to lie down for a moment."

The admission worried Athos, but he didn't run off to fetch Aramis just yet. Like d'Artagnan, he needed to be still for a moment. Cut off from the celebrants in the other room, the house seemed peaceful. Athos could believe that d'Artagnan could heal here.

"I admire your capacity for forgiveness, d'Artagnan," Athos admitted surprising even himself.

D'Artagnan looked at his friend. "I follow your example."

"Mine?" Athos eyes widened ever so slightly and the admission. When had he ever been forgiving, especially in this boy's sight? He believed himself to be one of the least forgiving men in Paris.

D'Artagnan nodded. "When we met, I pushed you to fight me. I said some horrible things to provoke you, and you tried repeatedly to turn me away, to reason with me. We both know you're the better swordsman. You could have injured me, killed me…a lesser man would have. You could easily have at least humiliated me, disarmed me, made me appear to be what I was…a farm boy from Lupiac out of his depth. You would not. You would have refused to engage me in battle, and, had I not forced the issue, you would have walked away. I saw it as arrogance then, but later I realized. You did not rise to the bait. You forgave me for what I'd done even while I was doing it, and later you even swore to come to my aid if I should need it. It…_you_…you inspired me. You are an honorable man. It's not just something you think about from time to time or something you use when it is to your advantage. It's who you are. It is as basic to you as breathing. It's in the way you carry yourself, and in the way you deal with those around you, be they higher rank or lower." He smiled then, remembering something.

"Aramis and Porthos spoke of you as we tried to find evidence to clear your name. Their words were forthright and sincere, but I've found their words didn't do justice to you. You are an honorable man, a forgiving man, an honest man. You are the sort of man my father meant when he told me about honor, duty, responsibility…You are the sort of man I…" he looked away for a moment, seized by shyness or embarrassment. Athos waited patiently for him to continue. D'Artagnan cleared his throat, still hoarse especially after such a long speech and he looked Athos in the eye. "You are the sort of man I should like to become."

Athos was silent. His surprise at d'Artagnan's speech, his effusiveness, could not be more complete. How this Gascon youth could see so much in their brief encounter…and yet, to Athos's way of thinking, he was so wrong. "You don't want to be like me, boy." He saw immediately that d'Artagnan took this as rejection. He put a hand out to stop d'Artagnan turning away and he explained. "I have too many regrets. I have done too much…_wrong_…in my life. It weighs on my soul, boy, and it's too much to allow me to stand as anyone's role model. Don't emulate me, d'Artagnan. If you are to become anything more than you are, you decide what that is and make it so."

D'Artagnan thought about that and nodded, but Athos couldn't be sure if he truly understood. Since he had no intention of explaining the wrongs he'd committed in his life, he'd have to leave it for now.

Athos stood. "You should be resting. I'll leave you…"

"No…" d'Artagnan cut himself short as though realizing what he was saying and embarrassment colored his features. "I…I mean…I'm sorry…forgive me. You should get back to Aramis and Porthos." He made a move as though to turn away and face the wall.

Athos stopped him. "What is it? Are you in pain? Shall I get Aramis?" Athos was half rising from the bedside.

"No…I…it's just…" d'Artagnan let out a long breath in frustration. "That cell, I was alone…so much of the time. They gave me food, water once a day, but I wasn't allowed visitors. Madame Boucher came once when they decided to hang me. They permitted that as my last request, but she stayed only a few minutes before they ended the visit."

Rage surged through Athos at the thought of this. "You had no contact with anyone other than the man who brought food and water…_once_ a day?" Athos was incredulous.

"S-sometimes less," d'Artagnan admitted. "The point is," he rushed to continue before Athos could vent his anger, "I was alone so m-much of the time. I…I don't want to…" d'Artagnan managed to look away. Shame colored his face and tension rippled across his shoulders and arms, pulling at his injuries.

Athos had been a soldier for years. Before that, he'd been a Comte. He understood the need for solitude after the press of people making demands or requests or even just after a long campaign or mission where privacy was at a premium. That someone could be alone so much of the time and crave the company of others wasn't a difficult concept for him.

With a concentrated effort, Athos released his anger. It wasn't directed at the boy and was no good for him right now anyway. It was Lemieux who was behind this. He was at fault. Athos glanced around the room. It was modestly furnished as most local farmhouses were, but there was a sturdy, comfortable looking chair by the window. He crossed to it and brought it to d'Artagnan's bedside. Settling himself down, he looked at d'Artagnan. "I have nowhere to be." He smiled then, a small thing, barely a quirk of the lips, but d'Artagnan glowed.

They both sat back and talked, d'Artagnan asking what the Musketeers had been doing since the last time they'd seen each other…before they received his urgent missive. Athos, all to happy to oblige, told him of their days, the boring ones and the less humdrum moments alike. In short order, the boy drifted to sleep. Athos, not really willing to leave him alone, even in sleep, after the heartfelt admission that he'd been isolated for so long, settled back in the chair and allowed himself the luxury of watching the lad sleep.

**The Musketeers**

Aramis had seen Porthos having a quiet word with Athos, and made his way to his friend's side. "Is everything all right?" He had just enough residual anxiety over the boy's injuries to ask.

Porthos nodded. "The boy's fine. Just a bit too much…" he gestured to the crowd… "…attention and 'e's feelin' a bit 'emmed in. Athos went to be sure e's gettin' some rest."

Aramis nodded. "We'll have to keep everyone from noticing. This is an old fashioned knees-up. The locals should remember the celebration and not d'Artagnan's absence."

Porthos nodded, and together they did just that. They kept the wine flowing, the food available, and encouraged everyone to enjoy themselves. When people began to drift away, looking for someone from whom to take their leave, Aramis stepped into the breech thanking them for coming, for contributing food, drink, chairs, tables or merely their own delightful presence to the festivities while promising to extend their farewells to d'Artagnan.

When everyone had left, he and Porthos helped Madame Boucher tidy up. The woman had meant it when she'd said she'd be staying so, once she'd retired to her room, and the Lamberts had left insisting they'd be back in the morning to see what d'Artagnan wanted done around the property, Aramis and Porthos slipped away to d'Artagnan's room.

Peeking around the door, Aramis saw d'Artagnan soundly sleeping and slightly propped up in bed, and Athos, an arm resting on the young man's shoulder as he contemplated the sleeping form.

Aramis cleared his throat as he stepped inside making room for Porthos to follow. "How is he?" Aramis spoke softly.

Athos replied in kind. "He's well. Fatigued mostly. His bandage needs changing, but his exhaustion claimed him before I could do it."

"Hmmm," Aramis responded, knowing Athos well enough to know when he was stretching the truth. He crossed to the bed and put a hand to d'Artganan's head. The skin was cool. "He seems well. I'll let him sleep and change it when he wakes."

He turned to Athos then tossed a questioning glance at Porthos. The larger man nodded knowing, as they each always seemed to know, what the other was asking.

Aramis nodded in return and looked at Athos. "We'll need to head back soon."

Athos sighed. "I know."

"Treville is a kind and understanding soul, but if he gives us much more time, people will start to talk. I mean, after all, we know we're his favorites. No point rubbing it in everyone else's face."

Athos waited, and Aramis plunged on ahead. "Porthos and I think d'Artagnan would do well in Paris. He'd be a fine soldier…even a Musketeer."

Athos nodded. "And?"

"And…" he looked to Porthos who shrugged not sure what Athos was asking. He looked back at Athos. "We wondered where you stood on the matter."

Athos looked at Aramis, then Porthos, and finally back at d'Artagnan. Aramis saw a level of tenderness in the gaze that he'd last seen on his friend when Porthos had been seriously injured. Athos looked up at Aramis. "I stand with d'Artagnan. His future is of his making. It is where he stands on the matter that you should wonder." He rose then and stretched as though he'd been in that chair a long while. Then he moved to the bedside, placed a tender hand on d'Artagnan's head as though gauging the temperature for himself, then moving it down to the boy's cheek in silent affection. After a moment, Athos turned and walked from the room without saying another word.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, and Aramis shrugged, taking up the chair Athos had vacated and waiting for d'Artagnan to wake so he could tend to his bandages. Porthos settled on the floor beside him to keep him company.

**The Musketeers**

The next morning, the Musketeers rose early, and leaving Madame Boucher to watch a still sleeping d'Artagnan, the trio headed to Lupiac's town center.

"You plannin' on explainin' what we're about?" Porthos asked. He'd follow Athos anywhere, but he did like to know where they were going.

Athos took a deep breath and explained himself. He told his friends what d'Artagnan had told him. He explained about the forced isolation, the feeding schedule, the fact that he had only been permitted to speak to Madame Boucher for a few moments in all the weeks he'd been held. Porthos felt his own anger growing with each word. He could see Aramis was likewise affected. Athos, having had the night to stew over the details, was in a different place. No longer merely anger, he had passed through enraged and had now achieved a calm he only carried with him when his anger had cooled and a plan for vengeance had emerged. It wasn't a look he'd seen often. Twice that he could recall Athos had worn this expression, his anger both hardened and tempered by friendship and affection. Once had been when he'd learned how Marsac had abandoned Aramis to die alone in the woods. Porthos had often been pleased the other man had not returned, for if Athos had seen him, the deserter would have been destroyed, not merely killed, but utterly obliterated. The second time had been shortly after that.

It had been shortly after receiving his commission. Porthos had been late returning from a two-day leave. Aramis and Athos, knowing how seriously he took his commission had come looking for him. They'd found him. He'd been drugged and beaten, tied up in a basement in a small hovel of a home just outside of the Court of Miracles. Aramis had put him back together. Athos had taken it upon himself to discover who had done this. Porthos had seen nothing, being both drunk and drugged at the time, but somehow Athos had put it all together. The men responsible had been beaten and removed from Paris. Word of their appearance in a local jail somewhere in La Fere had kept Porthos and Aramis guessing how Athos had convinced the Comte de la Fere to assist him in his vengeance. Athos refused to speak of it. The men had served two years and been cut loose on the proviso that they leave France and never return. Porthos learned they'd been friends of his in the Court, angered that he'd moved on and found a way to make something of himself and believing Porthos thought himself better than they were.

Porthos glanced at Aramis when the tale was done, and Aramis moved his horse to block Athos. "What are you planning, my friend?"

Athos seethed. "Move aside."

Aramis put up a hand. "Now, don't think for a moment that I won't help. I'm as upset as you are. I need to know. What are you planning?"

"I need a word with Lemieux."

Porthos snorted.

Aramis ignored that. "A word?"

Athos sat up straighter on the horse's back. "Yes, a word."

Aramis stepped aside and moved to flank his commanding officer.

Porthos chuckled. "This word…is it spelled with a sword and punctuated with a fist? If so, I've got a few of my own to share."

Athos actually smiled, and Porthos grinned at the sight rare as it was.

"A word is all I require." He shrugged for a moment, considering. "A threat may be included," Athos admitted.

They stopped their horses in front of the offices where d'Artagnan had been held. They moved swiftly through the building to the cell that had held d'Artagnan for so long. Athos cracked open the door to the cell and peered inside. Aramis nudged him and he and Porthos followed. Porthos almost laughed at the sight that met him. Lemieux, wide eyed, cowered in the corner, sporting several bruises he'd not had when the Musketeers had departed. Porthos imagined that a few of the people who'd learned the extent of the man's crimes had stopped by to explain their irritation to the man.

Athos glared, and Lemieux almost cowered, but he seemed to remember himself. Getting to his feet, he stared at the Musketeers. "I demand my rights…"

"You are in a position to demand nothing," Athos told him.

Porthos quietly shut the door behind him satisfied when the click of locking it made Lemieux jump.

Lemieux stepped backwards, hands held out in front of him. "Leave me alone!"

Athos nodded. "That I will do." He stepped closer backing Lemieux further into the cell until his back hit the wall. "I have been up all night drafting a report to my commanding officer and to the King explaining your crimes, the murders, the theft, the forged orders claiming you had the authority of the Crown behind you, and I gave my recommendations as to your punishment. I have a special place as one of the King's favorites at the moment, and he will listen. I have recommended isolation. Extended isolation."

Lemieux shook his head. "I will appeal…"

"There's no authority higher than the King," Athos reminded him.

"I'll find others…the King must have other favorites."

Athos smiled. "He does." He gestured to Aramis who stepped forward, tipping his hat. Then to Porthos, who grinned and slammed his fist into his open palm.

"Isolation…that's….not so bad…" Lemiuex insisted with a dash of bravado so obviously false that Porthos laughed outright.

"You misunderstand. There is a cell in the Chatelet, so deep below ground they call it the pit. The men who have gone down there never see daylight. They live in the light of a torch or two, quite alone. Their food is lowered down in buckets. Their jailers never say a word to them. Your isolation will be complete and total." Athos smiled. "I leave you to contemplate the luxury of your current surroundings. Try to remember them. It will seem like paradise in a few months." Athos turned on his heel and marched from the cell.

Aramis smiled and clapped his hands together. "And I was afraid he had something drastic in mind," he said as he followed Athos out.

Porthos took a step closer to the man. He grinned at him silently until the man shook just imagining what Porthos planned. Then Porthos took half a step back and spat in Lemieux's eye. With a laugh, he left the man to himself and followed his friends.

"That went well," he said to Aramis and Athos. They left in companionable silence and returned to d'Artagnan's farm.

**The Musketeers**

The Musketeers had gathered their supplies, which Madame Boucher had augmented with her own cooking, and had saddled their horses. D'Artagnan had come out to see them off and leaned more heavily than he'd have liked to admit on a fence post as they fastened the last of the saddlebags.

Porthos stepped up to the lad a grin on his face. "Glad you're on your feet, so to speak."

D'Artagnan returned the grin. "I wouldn't be if you hadn't come. Thank you, Porthos."

Porthos shook his head. "Told you before. No reason for thanks. I couldn't have stood by and let them kill you for something you didn't do…or for something you did do, for that matter. You're a good lad." It seemed he wanted to say more, but he gave up and finished with, "Don't be a stranger."

Aramis spoke to Madame Boucher and described how he expected d'Artagnan's recovery to go. He told her what to do in case he worsened, but he didn't expect any such thing. Then the Musketeer turned to d'Artagnan, who was shaking Porthos's hand. "Ah, my lad! I must say a part of me envies you this lovely place. The peace of it…" he inhaled deeply taking in the soothing smells of a clear if chilly day. "…It's a tonic!"

D'Artagnan laughed. "It won't smell as good in a month or so once we've laid the manure."

Aramis's smile froze on his face. "I'm glad to miss it!" He said cheerily as he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "I'm also glad to leave you in such good hands." He made a vague gesture to Madame Boucher and the Lamberts, who were milling about nearby. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Don't fail to call on us if ever again you find yourself in need of a sword, a musket, or brute strength." The smile shifted into a genuine, less boastful one. "Or…just a few good friends!"

D'Artagnan nodded, and seemed more than a little surprised when Aramis gave him a hearty, friendly hug. "Thank you, Aramis," he said as he returned it perhaps a bit tighter than he would have had the previous weeks not been the trauma they were.

Aramis shook his head. "No thanks are necessary. No other outcome was acceptable."

Athos had spoken briefly with the Lamberts. He appreciated their stepping forward to help d'Artagnan, but he wanted to be sure they understood the consequences of letting the boy down. Noting the paleness of their features after he'd said his piece, he congratulated himself on his fine communication skills. He turned finally to d'Artagnan who'd only just become disentangled from Aramis.

"You look better than you have since we arrived," Athos admitted.

"I feel much more myself," d'Artagnan replied. "Thank you, Athos. No one else will accept my gratitude. I do hope you will."

Athos gauged the man's words and nodded. "If you feel you must extend it, then I will accept it. I'm glad you called on us, though how you could think we'd come all this way merely to watch as you died I'll never understand."

D'Artagnan looked down and spoke softly. "I honestly could foresee no other outcome. I thought…my father…I thought it better to leave this world, to see him again, to see my mother once more…than to hope in vain for a reprieve that would see me…well…with no real direction, and no real family."

Athos shook his head. "You have all of that and more. Remember, d'Artagnan, a man may go in any direction he chooses, but the easiest path to see is the one to which your own dreams lead you."

D'Artagnan looked up in surprise.

Athos gave him a half smile. "You've told me a lot about your father's dreams for this land, for Lupiac, even for you, but you've said precious little about your own. Once you've examined them, you won't feel as though you have no direction."

D'Artagnan nodded and offered his hand. Athos shook it and turned to his horse and mounted.

The trio of Musketeers doffed their hats and waved to d'Artagnan, who waved in return, as did Madame Boucher, and, after a while, the Lamberts.

After they'd ridden a short distance, Athos glanced back to see the others had returned to their chores leaving a thoughtful d'Artagnan staring at the receding Musketeers.

**The Musketeers**

It was a fine day in March. Athos watched as Porthos and Aramis put some of their newest recruits through their paces. The trio had just returned from a mission, and though Athos knew he should be reporting to the Captain, they'd decided to delay so that they could make a point.

The fledgling Musketeers weren't bad, but they had been assuming they could join the Inseparables merely by sitting at their table at meals, standing nearby and attempting to add their own opinions to their conversations, and joining in whenever they found the trio at a tavern.

The Inseparables were having none of it. Other Musketeers tried to warn the young men that the Inseparables were a trio and not in the habit of expanding that count. The young tend not to listen to their elders.

Once Aramis and Porthos had somewhat humiliated the new recruits, they joined Athos and they made their way to Captain Treville's office.

Athos knocked and heard the Captain give permission to enter. He was therefore somewhat surprised to find that the Captain wasn't alone. Treville stood in front of his desk and was shaking the hand of a very familiar young man.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, his shock apparent.

"Athos." D'Artagnan turned to the others. "Aramis, Porthos." D'Artagnan waited, anxiety painting his features.

Athos turned to Treville. His question was written on his face.

Treville addressed all three of his inseparables. "D'Artagnan has asked for the opportunity to join us. I told him he would be most welcome if someone were to agree to vouch for him formally. After all, a letter of introduction is the usual way a thing like this begins. Now, do any of you know where our young Gascon might get such a letter?"

Treville raised an eyebrow. An instant later, each of the Inseparables produced a letter from his pocket. Each had been written some time ago and had obviously been carried around waiting for such an opportunity. Treville took each letter having obviously known the trio would produce them and wrote the date on the top of each placing them in a neat stack on his desk. "Fine. It's all in order. D'Artagnan, welcome to Paris. Your training will be hard and will begin today. Dismissed."

D'Artagnan smiled his thanks and left the office.

Treville looked to the Inseparables. "I know you're here to report on the mission you've just completed. It's a shame you missed me. I should be back in my office in an hour."

The trio smiled and took their leave racing out of the office to catch up with their newest recruit.

Athos paused before leaving. "Captain, I will cover any expenses for his training. No need to trouble him about that."

Treville nodded. "I'll be sure to make a note of it," he said as he placed a fourth, slightly less rumpled recommendation letter to the pile on the desk.

Athos grinned at the sight.

D'Artagnan had just reached the bottom of the stairs when Aramis and Porthos ran after him calling his name. Athos followed at a slightly more dignified pace.

"When did you get back to Paris?" Porthos asked.

"What about your farm?" Aramis added.

"Today. The Lamberts are looking after it. I've made a deal with them. We'll share the profits and they'll continue to look after the hired hands." D'Artagnan smiled, slightly unsure even after what had happened in the office. "I'm pleased to see you all."

"As we are pleased to see you," Athos said.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat and walked towards his horse, which he'd left tied just inside the stables. He reached into the saddlebags and removed three wine bottles and presented one to each of the Musketeers.

"Gifts are not necessary, d'Artagnan," Athos began, but d'Artagnan shook his head and smiled.

"These are." He waited as they each examined their bottle.

"D'Artagnan…" Aramis read. He looked up at the boy, surprise on his face. "Are these your father's?" He tried to hand the bottle back. "We cannot take them from you!"

D'Artagnan smiled, though there was a tinge of sadness in it. "You must, or you won't be able to compare them."

"Compare 'em to what?" Porthos asked.

"These." D'Artagnan removed three more bottles from the bag and presented those as well.

"These are the same…" Porthos started.

"No. Read the year," d'Artagnan suggested.

"This is your own vintage. The first is the one you bottled expecting he would be correcting you this summer." Athos said, a knowing smile tweaking the corners of his mouth.

D'Artagnan smiled. "Yes, and to my shock, I actually did it. My last try with him by my side, and I got it right. I consulted my notes before leaving Lupiac, and I was able to compare them to my father's…both his notes and his last bottles. They're almost identical." He turned thoughtful and quiet. "If he had lived, he might have been proud of me."

Athos took a step closer and slipping a bottle under his arm, he placed his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders. "D'Artagnan, I spoke to Madame Boucher. I have heard you speak of your father, and I have also spoken to someone in whose interpretations of the bible and God's word I have utmost confidence myself." He gestured toward Aramis, surprising not only d'Artagnan, but also Porthos and Aramis. "I am sure of two things. One, he was already proud of you. Two, though he is gone, he is prouder still." He paused a moment to let d'Artagnan take that in. "Now, on to more practical matters. Have you procured a place to stay?"

"Madame Bonacieux…" d'Artagnan began.

"Ah, the fair Constance…" Aramis interrupted, a mischievous smile upon his face.

Porthos smacked him on the back of the head. "She's married."

Aramis blinked. "And?"

Athos put an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulder's leading him away. "Ignore them. Come. Let us begin your training, D'Artagnan. You have much to learn, which, as it turns out, is good since we have much to teach."

**The Musketeers**

D'Artagnan smiled as he allowed Athos to lead him across the courtyard. During his long ride to Paris he'd come to realize a few things. He'd initially been wracked with indecision and anxiety and had indeed come close to turning around and heading for home more than once.

What hope could he have, he'd thought, to become a Musketeer? He was a farmer from Lupiac as unfamiliar with Paris life as a Comte would be with farming. Yet, he had pushed on, unable to turn back, though he vowed each night that he would the next morning.

His return to the Garrison had taken away his indecision. Seeing the familiar place had chased away some of his doubt. He'd recalled his father teaching him to wield a sword, and he recalled his words on honor and he knew that somehow, his father had always known he wouldn't stay on the farm forever. Indeed, Alexandre d'Artagnan himself might not have stayed on the farm had he not fallen in love and fathered a child. He'd never shown any sign of regret, and d'Artagnan believed his father was content in his choices and in the life he'd built for himself and his son, but one particularly lonely night on his trip to Paris, d'Artagnan recalled a conversation they'd had when he was 15 years old.

They'd been doing hard labor digging up an old tree. The tree had been struck by lightning and burned. They'd chopped it down most of the day, and were trying to remove the root when his father had suggested a short break. Breathing heavily, yet somehow looking well and fit at the same time, he'd wiped his brow with a handkerchief and looked his son in the eye.

"Charles," he said, "A man may choose any route home. The short and direct path or the long and meandering." He'd laughed then, and d'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment at the memory, overcome with the desire never to forget the sound of that laugh. "Sometimes, both routes end up in the same place, and sometimes they can take you to vastly different destinations."

D'Artagnan hadn't understood what he was saying. He had questioned him, but his father had said he'd know what he meant one day. He often claimed the future would make things clearer, but d'Artagnan wondered how long he'd need to wait. He was certain that he was no wiser, that things were no clearer, than they had been all those years ago.

Even so, he thought he knew now what his father must have meant. He'd pondered the words along with what Athos had told him about following his own dreams and he would find direction. Once he'd considered that, his father's words made sense. Athos had said he was young and could change his mind, and he thought it was a fine suggestion. If he did become a Musketeer, he might choose one day to retire on his little farm in Lupiac.

He might choose instead to remain in Paris, remain a soldier. He could see himself doing either of those things, or indeed, if he decided in a year's time that soldiering was not for him, he could return all the sooner.

His life as he'd known it had crumbled to ashes in a matter of a few days, but somehow, now, after all he'd been through, he saw possibilities. He might never have considered them had his father not been killed, and so they were bittersweet at best, but, from the ashes of his life, he'd found a chance to build another.

He stood now across from Athos in the courtyard. They each raised their swords in salute and in moments, the sound of sword-on-sword, punctuated with shouts of encouragement from Aramis and Porthos rang through the early morning.

Finis


End file.
